


Monsters of Men

by runoutofwit



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Demon Dean Winchester, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-11-20 18:25:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 62,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runoutofwit/pseuds/runoutofwit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life is relatively simple for Dean: get a contract, kill something, collect money, get drunk and fuck. That’s how it’s been for a long while now, and that’s the way he likes it. However, he never thought he’d have an angel in his house, and he sure as hell never guessed he’d think about keeping it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pandalianxxx](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=pandalianxxx).



> Written for the DeanCas Christmas Exchange. For the prompt: “Dean is a demon who's generally just causing chaos when he stumbles across an injured Cas. He ends up taking care of the angel, causing Cas to end up thoroughly attached to him. Bonus points if Gabriel's in there~” So, I might have gotten a bit overzealous… I looked at this prompt, and I’d already been itching to try my hand at a demon!dean fic, so I plotted it out, and it turned out to be a 50k+ fic. Oops? I designed a whole new world for this to take place in, where angels, demons, and humans (attempt to) live harmoniously together. Dean doesn’t come off as much of a demon in the first few chapters, but expect it to get rather dark.
> 
> Also, [Jen](http://mishasassbutt.tumblr.com) at tumblr made me a wonderful 8-track for this fic which you can listen to [here](http://8tracks.com/mishasassbutt/monsters-of-men).

There’s nothing sweeter than the hunt. Than tracking down some monster, ripping out its throat, and then getting a reward for something he would have done anyway. It’s intoxicating, pleasure racking his body as he watches the vamp’s head fall to the ground with a heavy thud. This is pure, and he won’t let a distant memory of a close call and razor-wire ruin it.

There’s no time to revel in his victory, though. The dead thing at his feet wasn’t his target, who must be hiding somewhere nearby. It’s somewhat annoying, really. His sharp eyes catch the freshly crushed twigs and leave, ears hear the quiet panting. It’s too easy, and Dean wishes he could get a more difficult contract one of these days.

He catches sight of a shadow moving in his periphery, and the chase is on again. By will of mind and flicks of his hand, Dean forces tree branches to snap, attempting to  obstruct the vampire’s path, slow him down, maybe even get lucky and hit the bastard. But the little shit is fast, and fuck, Dean’s _losing_ him.

There are a few seconds where the vampire is completely out of sight, and Dean already has a stream of curses ready in his throat when he can hear screaming. Several yards ahead of him, bright light is shining through the brush, blinding in the night. Dean stops, staring in the direction of it, too shocked to move forward. The scent of burning flesh hits his nose, and as the light fades, so does the screaming, and the forest is silent again.

He has no idea what to expect, so Dean reaches down and pulls the gun from his thigh holster, ready to fight. His mind is whirring, and he knows he should probably be concerned, maybe even a little scared. However, all he can feel is excitement, anticipation, curiosity, and it drives him forward.

When he sees it, he has to take a reality check, because there’s _no fucking way_.

He tries to convince himself that the huge wings sprawled across the ground really mean that this is some kind of harpy, maybe even a dragon. They almost look like smoke, vaguely transparent and nearly hiding the body beneath. They crackle sometimes, what looks like electricity flicking between transparent feathers.

But Dean only knows of one creature with wings like this, wings that seem to be made out of pure, condensed energy, and if he had any doubts, the nearby body of the vampire he’d been chasing, eyes and face burned to a crisp, would be a dead giveaway.

He mumbles to himself, “Son of a bitch.”

The creature moves, quickly pulling up onto its haunches. Now Dean can see that it’s a man, though he seems barely alive. He’s coated in blood, and blue light throbs dimly beneath some of his wounds. His suit and coat are torn and splashed with red, but Dean can make out the symbol of Heaven embroidered onto the jacket, just over the heart.

“Don’t come any closer,” the creature rasps, though his heavy panting makes him less than terrifying. He raises his wings, spreading them across the space in a show of power. They move like ghosts, fading through the trees and crackling with energy. Dean’s heard stories about these things, and he’s not risking getting too close.

Still, the creature looks like it’s barely holding on. His face is obviously pained, and he holds up a shaking silver blade as a threat. The pale, trembling figure tries to get to his feet, but just as his knees straighten, he coughs and falls back down, spurting blood across the grass. After some retching, the creature falls flat on his face, unmoving.

It’s not until the wings fade and disappear that Dean realizes the thing is unconscious. He mutters to himself and takes a few cautious steps forward. Nudging it with his foot, he flips the body over and squints at it. The dude’s not dead. That’s for sure (he’d heard that when they die, they burst into light and burn their wings into the ground).

“Well, what the hell am I going to do with you?”

It’s a good question. After all, how often does anyone come across one of these? As he pries the sword out of the creature’s hand, he wonders what got it out here in the first place. It had to be something bad. After all, there are very few things that can harm it, and they’re rarely found outside of the capital and major cities. Luckily, Lawrence hasn’t gotten big enough to qualify for constant watch, but some big wigs will swing by every once in awhile to scope out the city. Dean’s usually on a hunt, though, and by the time he gets back, they’ve flown the coop.

So, this guy… He either got separated from his group and then got jumped by some seriously badass monster, or he’s a renegade. The latter is the most probable option. After all, no one gets the jump on one of these guys except… Well, one of these guys.

The decision Dean makes after coming to this conclusion is quick and easy. It’s going to be a pain in the ass, but the reward is going to be _so_ worth it. He tucks his gun away and uses the monster’s blade ( _Dean’s_ blade, now) to cut the head off the vampire. He holds it by the hair, then turns and struggles to get his arm around the unconscious creature. The walk home is miserable, but as soon as they’re within a reasonable distance, Dean teleports them the rest of the way.

The thing doesn’t stir in the slightest, not even when Dean unceremoniously drops him to the floor. He stands there a moment, thinking of what to do. When he wakes up, he’s going to be in no state to run—let alone fly. However, Dean’s still got the head of a vampire in one hand and an impatient client waiting for him, and it wouldn’t be smart to risk leaving the creature here alone. Besides, he looks like he’s going to bleed out any minute.

Dean sets the head down by the front door, and then moves the thing (he’s still not exactly comfortable with the A-word) to the couch. He strips the creature down to its underwear, unable to resist taking an admiring peek at the stained, damaged skin. He spends the next hour sewing and patching him up, stopping some of the bleeding. Normally, there would be some spells he could use to speed up the healing process, but he can’t be sure that they’ll work on this.

Once he’s done, he slaps some chains onto the creature and tethers him to the wooden frame of the couch. If he was that weak earlier, he shouldn’t have enough energy to do _too_ much damage when he wakes up. Still, it doesn’t hurt to take some precautions.

Dean licks his lips nervously and runs a towel over his face and neck to remove the blood that dried there. With one last look at the creature, he grabs the fang’s head and leaves. He doesn’t want to be away for too long and risk losing his one-way ticket out of Hell, so he doesn’t even bother counting the money that’s given to him when he shows his client that the vampire is well and truly dead (and he expertly avoids all questions about why it looks like it got into a fight with a blowtorch).

Yet, he does have to make _one_ stop.

\+ + +

Even being near this place makes Dean’s skin crawl. It’s impeccably clean and reeks of pretention, a mansion that can barely contain the ego of its owner. Making his way past the guards, Dean can feel their eyes on him. They know him, of course; Lawrence is far from being a big city. And his reputation precedes him: a contract killer with a blood lust, trained under Alastair and known to get into more than a handful of drunken bar fights. Not to mention he and the owner of this house aren’t exactly friends.

The woman at the desk in the foyer looks up as he enters, lips immediately pulling into a grimace.

“Dean Winchester,” she sighs, raking her gaze over his blood-splattered figure. “What do you want?”

“Just wanted to see your face, sweet cakes,” he smirks, placing his hands on the desk. “I’m here to see Crowley.”

She cocks her head to the side, flashing a none-too-pleased smile as she pushes his hands away. “He’s busy.”

“I’m serious. He’s gonna want to talk to me.”

“Oh, really?” She raises a brow. “Why? What could _you_ possibly have to offer him?”

Her voice is venomous. Dean licks his lips and takes a moment to glance away and gather himself. In a quieter voice, he says, “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t call you. Things came up.”

She barks a laugh, eyes flashing black for a moment. “ _Things came up_. That’s real cute, Dean. It doesn’t matter, though. Really. After all, why would I care about getting a call from a two-bit hunter like you?”

“Ouch. You’re hurting my feelings.” She doesn’t take well to his mocking, so he puts his hands on the desk again and leans down. “Look, Maggie—“

“Marilyn.”

Oops. “ _Marilyn_. I really need to talk to Crowley. And I don’t exactly have a lot of time.”

“Well, obviously, since you couldn’t find time to call me.”

He takes a deep breath, not doing a great job of keeping his temper. Luckily (or not so luckily, since Dean would never call a day where he has to see the most arrogant asshole on the planet _lucky_ ), the clearing of a throat interrupts them. They both look up, and Dean barely restrains a frown as the newcomer says, “My, my, my. Dean Winchester in my abode. What makes me so fortunate this evening?”

“Crowley,” Dean nods.

The owner of the house looks as posh as ever, dressed to the nines in his finely tailored suit. His shoulders are set back and relaxed, and he holds himself with the demeanor of a king standing among roaches.

Dean adds, “I was actually here to talk business.”

Crowley looks amused, smirk pulling at the edge of his lips. “Is that so?” He waits a moment, looking at the younger man appraisingly before nodding. “Fine. I have a few minutes to spare.”

When Crowley turns his back, Dean flashes Marilyn a self-satisfied smile and follows her boss, closing the doors to the office behind him.

When he turns back to approach the desk, the other demon is pouring a glass of liquor. Dean’s about to take it, but Crowley quickly lifts it to his lips and takes a sip, sitting in the huge leather chair behind the desk.

“Now, what did you want?”

Dean takes in a deep breath. He’s not too keen on dealing with Crowley. It’s not because he thinks the guy will gyp him; on the contrary, the guy’s notorious for being the most reliable and influential man involved with the black market. Still, the two have never really gotten along, and Dean wouldn’t put it past Crowley to screw him over just for the hell of it.

“I was out on a hunt earlier today—“

“Why, I would have never guessed.”

Dean takes a slow breath through his nose. “And I stumbled upon something that might interest you.”

There’s a beat of silence where Crowley raises a brow, staring at the young man over the rim of his glass. “Well?”

“An angel.”

There’s some satisfaction in seeing the King of the Crossroads nearly choke on his drink.

“ _Bull_ ,” the man coughs out.

“No lie. Dude was barely alive, too. He’s passed out on my couch right now, but I stitched him up.” Dean takes a step forward, feeling a bit more confident. “ _And_ I know you deal in more than holy weapons and crossroads deals.”

Crowley takes a moment to collect himself, squinting his eyes as he looks the Winchester over.

“Where’d you find him?” he finally asks.

“Out in the woods. I was on a hunt down near Ottawa, chasing a fang. Next thing I know he’s getting his eyes burned out, and I’m standing in front of an angel passed out in a puddle of his own blood. He’s from Heaven, too—got the symbol right on his shirt. Had to have been some kind of… Guard or officer, I guess.” Dean takes a few steps forward, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I thought you might be interested in making a purchase.”

The demon smirks and shakes his head, setting his glass on the desk. “That depends—how close to death is this fellow?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure the guy would've been dead if I hadn't come around. He seems stable now, but I’m not sure when he’s going to wake up. I was actually kind of in a hurry, you know.”

The man hums quietly, then turns. Stepping behind his desk, he pulls out a sheet of paper and pen, writing something down. “How much do you want for him, then?”

Surprised, a quickly suppressed grin spreads over Dean’s face. “Well, how much are you willing to give me?”

“Two.”

The hunter snorts, shaking his head quickly. “Two grand? You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Crowley looks up, rolling his eyes. “No, you moron. _Million_.”

It’s Dean’s turn to choke. He stares wide-eyed at the other demon, brain completely unable to process such an amount.

“Of course, that’s if you give him to me in mint condition. I don’t have time to waste on nursing a creature back to health that wants to burn the life out of me.”

Dean blinks a few times, finally remembering how to speak. “So, how do you expect _me_ to do that, then? I doubt he’s going to be thrilled about having to play house with a demon.”

“That’s what I’m doing right now.” Crowley finishes scribbling onto the paper, then holds it out to Dean. “Those are Enochian sigils—language of the angels. I wrote down the instructions and descriptions for each one. Inscribe a few of those on a collar, a bracelet, something, and keep it on him. That will essentially clip his wings, keep him from being able to use his powers.”

Dean looks them over, then folds the paper up and slips it into his pocket. “Thanks, I guess.”

“Oh, don’t thank me. You’re the one who is going to be dealing with an irritable, violent angel,” Crowley replies. “But… We have a deal?”

Dean smirks. “We don’t have to seal it with a kiss, do we?”

“I would rather bathe in holy water—no offense,” he says smoothly. “No, I will write up a contract. Come back in a few days, sign it, and then we’ll be golden. I will, however, want to see him. Make sure you’re not duping me.”

Dean waits a moment, then nods. “Alright, then. You’ve got yourself a deal. See you in a few days, I guess.”

\+ + +

When his house is within sight, Dean lets out a groan of frustration. He jogs to the porch, stopping a few feet away to assess the damage.

The angel is lying on his stomach across the deck (luckily, his wings are gone). An iron cuff hangs around his left wrist, part of the chain dangling uselessly from it. He looks up and narrows his gaze at Dean, seeming only slightly less dazed than he was earlier. He’s just as naked as Dean had left him, wearing only bandages and his underwear. Fresh blood is seeping through the gauze on his shoulder, and the young man shakes his head.

“Dammit! You tore your fucking stitches,” he grumbles. The angel looks up, obviously confused, especially when Dean leans down and wraps an arm around his shoulders, heaving him up to his feet. “You’re lucky I came back when I did. You look like you’re about to bleed to death.”

The angel mutters something, staring at Dean for a long moment before his feet trip up and he has to lean against him. Dean ushers him back into the house and fumbles with the keys for a few seconds before they can get inside.

Luckily, nothing else seems out of place. The couch is looking a bit more tattered than usual, but only the one chain is broken, nothing else. Dean sits the angel down on the couch with a grunt, then takes a moment to look him over.

“How’d you even get out?” he mumbles. He turns to the supply kit he’d left out on the coffee table, grabbing some fresh gauze and stitches.

“I flew.”

Dean jumps slightly, having not expected the thing to actually _respond_. Glancing back over his shoulder, he raises a brow before turning around. The angel is leaned back against the couch, hand kneading at his injured shoulder as he hisses through his teeth. “How’d that work out for you?”

“Terribly, obviously,” the other responds matter-of-factly.

Dean can’t help but chuckle, and he gets on his knees in front of the angel, laying the supplies out next to him. When he goes to try and peel the bandage away, the creature flinches slightly, and he shakes his head.

“Look, you can either let me help you, or you can bleed to death on my couch. Your choice, dude,” Dean sighs.

They stare at each other for a long time, but the angel finally removes his hand from his shoulder.

Dean works in silence, removing the soiled bandages and stitching the flesh back up. As he works, hands gentle, the man above him says, “I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”

“Well, if I didn’t, you’d be dead,” he shrugs. “I don’t see why you’re complaining.”

“I am not complaining. I am simply confused,” the angel huffs, and then gasps quietly when Dean is a little too rough with the needle. He grits his teeth and looks towards the front door. “After all, you’re a demon, correct?”

Dean glances up for a moment, eyes flashing black for just a second before he goes back to closing the deep cut. “Well, you’re just a regular Sherlock Holmes.”

They’re both silent again. The angel doesn’t speak until Dean cuts off the end of a suture. “Why?”

“Well, you were gonna die. I guess you could say it was the goodness of my black heart.”

“Then why did you restrain me and leave me tethered to your furniture?”

“Well, like you said,” Dean replies, beginning to rewrap the shoulder. “You’re an angel. I’m a demon. I doubted you’d ask questions before you tried killing me… There. How much can you move it?”

The angel raises his arm, but can’t lift it higher than his chest before he has to let it fall back down. “It’s very badly injured.”

Dean nods, but returns his tools and supplies to the kit, fitting the lid back over it. He sits on the coffee table, knees nearly brushing the angel’s as he looks him over.

“So, how are you feeling?”

“I have certainly been better,” the angel responds, staring at his hands in his lap. He flexes his fingers, turns them over to look at the tiny nicks and cuts that have scabbed over. He swallows, then looks up at Dean. “Thank you.”

Dean shifts awkwardly, the sincerity in the angel’s voice not sitting well with him. “Hey, don’t mention it.”

“No,” he responds, shaking his head. “I would have died if you had left me out there. And yet you have brought me to your home, not killed me or enslaved me… I am indebted.”

Dean’s really glad that he doesn’t feel guilt like he used to. “Seriously, it’s no big deal,” he shrugs. His mind is reeling, though, trying to find a way to get this guy to stay. After all, if he can just play off of this “kind demon” charade for a few days, that will make his job a whole lot easier, but…

“My name is Castiel,” the angel introduces himself.

“Dean Winchester.” The demon offers out his hand. Castiel stares at it before taking it, giving it a firm shake. As soon as they break contact, Dean stands and heads for the kitchen. “Hey, you hungry? Or, you know, cold? There’s some clothes in the spare bedroom down the hall, if you want them. Your stuff was ripped to hell, but I put it next to the couch just in case you still wanted them.”

“Food would be much appreciated, yes,” he hears as he rifles through the fridge. “I will take you up on your offer of clean clothes.”

Dean glances back only briefly as Castiel hobbles to the bedroom with his dirty clothing cradled in one arm. Once the angel is gone, the man sighs to himself, shaking his head as he pushes a frozen dinner into the microwave. He leans back against the counter as he waits, staring around the kitchen and living room. This is obviously a risky plan. The moment Castiel finds out Dean’s lying, his goose is cooked. But this is much better than fighting him, imprisoning him, forcing him to be here, right? The more cooperation there is, the better this whole thing will run. Of course, there _is_ the problem of how the hell Dean’s going to get this guy to _stay_ here.

He’s switching the cooked dinner for another frozen one when Castiel comes back out. The angel’s wearing jeans, the belt pulled as tight as possible around his hips, and a flannel shirt that’s at least two sizes too big on him. The sight makes something hurt in Dean’s chest, but he pushes that feeling down, buries it like everything else.

The angel looks awkward as he comes forward and stands next to the dining table, staring at Dean.

The demon grabs a fork out of a drawer and hands it to the angel along with the cooked dinner. “It’s nothing fancy, but it should do,” he says.

Castiel nods and takes it. He sits down but doesn’t begin to eat, looking intensely at his food for so long that Dean thinks he might have had an aneurysm.

“Dude, you okay?” he asks. The microwave beeps loudly behind him.

Glancing up, the angel says, “I was under the impression that it is polite to wait for all parties to be at the table before eating.”

Dean huffs a laugh, shaking his head. He doesn’t say anything, though. Instead, he goes to the fridge and grabs two beers, placing them in the middle of the table. He grabs his dinner from the microwave. Once he’s seated across from Castiel, he pulls the clear wrap off the top of his meal and digs in.

Castiel, however, doesn’t begin to eat, and Dean can feel his gaze boring into the top of his head. When the demon finally looks up to grab a beer, he sighs.

“It’s not poisoned or anything,” he says. “Although I can’t say whether or not having too many of these will kill you. These things probably have all kinds of chemicals and preservative stuff in them.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, food companies make these things in bulk. I mean, my brother used to talk all the time about the shit they pump into—“

“No, Dean… That’s not what I meant." The angel purses his lips. “I still don’t understand why you chose to save me.”

Dean shrugs, looking back down to his food. “I don’t know. It was kinda heat of the moment, I guess. What were you doing, anyway? I mean, you guys are supposed to be pretty tough, aren’t you?”

Castiel looks to his own food, cutting a piece of ham with the side of his fork. “There must be some way I can repay you for what you did. I cannot let that sort of kindness go unreciprocated.”

Dean can’t help snorting, giving the angel a look of amusement. “I have to say, I don’t think I’ve ever been called kind. The whole ‘demon’ thing usually throws that out the window.”

“I see no other way to describe it.”

 “Well, how about this,” Dean says after a long drink of beer. “You’re gonna need time to rest up. Seeing as you won’t tell me what happened to get you like this, I’m going to make a wild guess and say you don’t have anywhere to go. I’m a contract killer; people tell me who—or what—they want dead, and I go do it. If you wanna help me with that, you can pay me back. How’s that? Work for me until you’re completely healed, and then we’re even.”

It’s a good plan, one that Dean hopes will work. It’d be perfect if it did. Having an angel by his side while he goes on hunts? If he thought it was easy before… And at the end, Dean can hand him over to Crowley, collect his money and then… Well, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. Go somewhere else. Blow all the money in Vegas. Maybe go to the Grand Canyon…

He stops that train of thought. He doesn’t want to go any further with that idea, knows exactly where it will lead him. If he’s being honest with himself, though, he knows that he wouldn’t mind having some company around. It’s been lonely these last couple of years, just being by himself. Sure, that means that he’ll be living with some dick angel for a couple of weeks, but it’s still better than sitting here alone. When he looks up to get an idea of what Castiel might be thinking, the angel nods.

“If that is what you think is fair, then I suppose that is what I must do,” he agrees.

Dean holds in the sigh of relief he wants to release. That was definitely easier than he thought it’d be. To think, this might all work out after all.

“Awesome. But we’re going to have to set up some rules, okay?” he says through a bite of lukewarm mashed potatoes.

“Rules?” Castiel asks, head tilting to the side.

“Yeah,” Dean nods. “I took your sword. Hope you don’t mind, but I can’t trust you with it for obvious reasons. You’re going to have to keep those wings of yours tucked away. No one else can know you’re an angel. I might be willing to keep you here and tolerate you, but don’t think anyone else will.”

“That seems… fair,” Castiel concedes. He shifts in his seat, but continues eating.

The paper in his pocket feels like its burning, reminding him that it’s there. Dean takes in a deep breath. His eyes wander to the cuff that’s still around the angel’s wrist, and he decides he’ll have to put it there. He could remove the rest of the chain, leave just the iron cuff. Etch the symbols into it and then be done.

“How long do you think it will take you to heal?” he asks, looking to his food.

Castiel finally grabs the other beer and pops off the cap to take a cautious sip. “I would say it would take a month for me to reach optimum performance. However, I could be functional in two weeks, if it were required of me.”

“You can stay for a month, then. And if you’re still feeling shitty after that, you can stay for a bit longer, if you want.”

“Thank you.”

They finish their meals quietly. Once Dean sees that Castiel has finished, he grabs the trays and silverware. He pitches the remnants of their dinner and throws the forks into the half-filled sink that probably should have been cleaned a few days ago. Well, hey, maybe he could even get Castiel to do dishes for him. Wouldn’t that be a sight: Almighty Angel of the Lord going domestic.

“Hey, there’s one other thing if you’re going to live here,” Dean says. He turns from the sink and leans back against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. “I actually know some, uh, Enochian. I know you’re not going to like this, but I’m going to have to bind your powers, at least until I can trust you not to blow my brains out in the middle of the night.”

Castiel bristles at that. He sits up straighter in his chair, chest puffing out slightly like he’s trying to seem bigger than he is.

“I can’t do that, Dean. That puts _me_ in danger, as well. It would be one thing if I were completely healthy, but even still it would be unlikely to happen,” he says, tone sharp. “I’m sorry.”

Dean shrugs. “Well, then, the door’s over there. Good luck finding a place to stay.” It’s a gamble, he knows. After all, this angel could very well say, “Okay,” and actually leave. Granted, Dean wouldn’t let him. He’d have to hurt him, find a way to keep him here, _something_. But it’s worth a shot.

And it works, because after a few long, tense seconds, Dean can see the angel’s resolve crumble in the way his lips twitch down, his brow relaxes, his shoulders slouch. Castiel leans back in his chair slightly, flinching at the way it stretches his wounds. Ocean-blue eyes flicker to the window, the fridge, the table—anywhere but Dean.

“Fine, then,” he mumbles. “How do you want to do it?”

Dean could practically jump for joy. He smiles and reaches into his jean pocket to pull out a small key for the set of cuffs he’d used to hold Castiel down, as well as a cloth (he’s grown a sort of tolerance for iron over the years, but it still hurts like a bitch to touch it). “I’ll etch them onto that.” He nods to the cuff. “If we ever have to go into town for some reason, I’ll have to find something else for you to wear. I doubt there’s a lot of demons out there familiar with Enochian, but it would still look weird for you to be wearing it around. We don’t need people asking questions.”

The tension in the air has skyrocketed five-hundred-percent, and Dean wonders if Castiel is going to renege on this whole thing. Dean carefully removes the cuff, but Castiel doesn’t stir. He stares at Dean’s hands, then at the demon himself, and the man feels oddly like some specimen at the zoo.

“It’s going to take a bit for me to get this done. You’re probably pretty tired, especially after using that energy trying to fly. You can sleep in… in the spare bedroom. Just call it yours for now. Whatever you do, don’t wander out of the house. We’re going to have to get those bandages replaced when you wake up, I’m guessing, so if I’m not out in the living room, just wait for me. Sound good?”

Castiel continues to stare, pale lips pulling into a tight line again. He finally nods, though, and gets slowly to his feet, leaning on the chair for support. “Again, thank you, Dean.”

The angel turns around and goes to the bedroom, the door closing quietly behind him. For a moment, Dean chooses to stand there, fiddling with the cuff in his hand and wondering if all angels are this weird, or if Castiel is just a special case.  


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even if he has an angel he's supposed to be taking care of, Dean still has a job to do. But Castiel is chatty and nosy, and Dean is starting to regret bringing him along for a hunt.

It is incredibly disconcerting how easy this all is. Castiel takes the cuff with only a grimace of discomfort. He doesn’t try to fight Dean. He doesn’t try to leave. Whatever Dean asks him to do, he does it, and it’s seriously grating on Dean’s nerves.

But what’s worse? This guy keeps trying to make _conversation_ , like they’re a couple of old schoolmates seeing each other for the first time in years. All Dean wants to do is unwind and watch some television, but Castiel plops his ass down right next to him, sitting pin-straight and staring inquisitively at the screen. While this is weird (not only being on a couch with someone he’s _not_ trying to get undressed but being on a couch with a freaking _angel_ ), Dean figures he can deal with it.

But then the dude starts _talking_.

“Is this a documentary?” asks the angels, eyes squinting and head tilting to the side.

Dean snorts, nearly blowing beer out of his nose. He takes a moment to regain himself and looks up at the angel.

“Seriously?”

“They appear to be medical personnel. I just thought that—“

“Dude, did you seriously just ask me if _Dr. Sexy_ was a documentary? Do I even look like the kind of guy who watches that kind of shit?”

Castiel appears affronted and shifts in his spot, turning his gaze back to the television. “I do not like to make assumptions about people, but no, I suppose not. What is this ‘Dr. Sexy’ then? That sounds like pornography.”

“Uh, some parts can get a little risqué, but not really. It’s just a show,” he shrugs. “One of the few things humans got right.”

Dean turns his attention back to the television. For a moment, he thinks they’re done; the conversation is ended. He’s getting a bit tired of being wrong.

Castiel points to the screen and asks, “Who is that?”

“That’s Ellen. She’s trying to become a neurologist,” Dean sighs.

“Why did she just slap that other doctor?”

“I don’t know, because this is a new episode, and I can’t hear what they’re saying over you talking,” he snaps back.

At least that seems to get to him. Dean half expects the angel to get up and leave. Instead, they sit there in silence and watch.

An hour later, the credits roll. Dean turns off the television and leans back into the couch. It’s pretty late, and the day’s events have worn him out. He normally would have gone to a bar after the hunt, maybe tried to pick someone up and bring them home. Unfortunately, that’s out of the question right now. God, and he’s supposed to go a month like this? There’s no way that’s happening.

Maybe one of these days he’ll be able to leave Castiel here without the fear of him running off (although, it’s been so easy to convince him to stay and cooperate that Dean thinks maybe it’s just a set-up). Even if he can’t do that, though, maybe he could take the angel to a bar with him. Find both of them somebody, and then he wouldn’t have to leave the guy alone.

Getting to his feet, Dean takes a moment to stretch. Castiel stands as well and gently fingers his wounds through the oversized flannel and stares at Dean. The gaze makes him uncomfortable, and the demon quickly turns to face him, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I’m going to bed. Don’t get yourself into any trouble,” he warns.

“Of course, as I’m such a threat with my wings bound and half my blood coating the forest floor,” the angel quips.

Dean raises his brows, surprised by the harsh sarcasm. Part of him wants to argue and ask why the guy’s being an asshole all of a sudden, but it’s completely overshadowed by how tired he feels. He mumbles something beneath his breath, rolls his eyes, and pushes past Castiel to his bedroom. The door slams shut behind him with a sound that resonates throughout the entire house, and he doesn’t even bother shedding his clothes before falling face first onto the bed.

He listens to Castiel shuffling about the house for a few minutes. Dean thinks he hears him go into the room next door and catches the telltale squeaks of the bedsprings. He wonders if he’ll even be able to fall asleep tonight. While the angel’s powers are bound (assuming Crowley didn’t just screw him over, which is totally a possibility) and all the weapons are locked up with enough magic and traps to kill just about anything, that doesn’t mean that getting shanked in the middle of the night is out of the question.

This whole thing has been too easy. It’s suspicious and doesn’t sit well with him, and he was taught from a young age that if it seems too good to be true, it probably is. Still, there’s not much he can do about it now. He could kill the angel, but then he’d be out two mil and have a pissed off, powerful, influential demon on his ass. He could lock him up, but that might just piss the dude off and make everything that much more difficult. Letting him go is laughable.

So he has to deal with this. The dude probably knows a thousand-and-one ways to kill a demon, but Dean was sure to lock up any paint, salt, and iron in the house. Still, after lying uncomfortably for an hour, he gets up and locks his bedroom door before returning to bed.

His sleep is more than fitful, and he can’t find it in him to have his eyes closed for more than thirty minutes before he bolts upright. Every noise, every bump has him on edge, and his eyes search the darkness for movement, the sound of a picking lock. But he never hears anything suspicious, just the trees swaying outside or the light patter of rain.

Needless to say, he is not in the best of moods when he wakes up. He wipes the sleep from his eyes, palms rubbing irritably against them as he rolls out of bed. After grabbing some fresh clothes, he takes a moment to stand in front of his door and stare at it. He has not forgotten that there is still an angel in his house, one that might be living with him for a month, and his stomach twists.

Dean Winchester would never admit that he was intimidated or scared. He’s stared down the barrel of a gun more than once, and there isn’t much that could have him shaking in his boots. And this angel? He doesn’t _scare_ Dean, per se, but there is some level of intimidation (which he will never, _ever_ say). After all, there is an _angel_ in his house, arguably the most powerful creature on the planet, and he’s containing all of that energy and power with one measly cuff that will hopefully endure for the duration of the angel’s stay.

Yeah, nothing can go wrong here.

Taking a deep breath, Dean unlocks the door and goes outside. He’s surprised to see Castiel sitting on the couch and staring at a blank television screen. He’s wearing the same thing he had changed into yesterday, body in that proper, straight-backed sitting position that screams of childhood etiquette classes. He obviously hasn’t done much to clean himself up, either, his hair tousled from sleep.

“You know, TV is typically more interesting when it’s turned _on_ ,” Dean says, heading towards the bathroom.

“I thought it would be inappropriate to touch your possessions without permission,” the angel replies smoothly, turning to look over at him “You said not to get into any trouble.”

Dean rolls his eyes and doesn’t offer anything else, choosing instead to head into the shower. It’s quick, and he doesn’t waste much time in there, but when he comes back out, Castiel has turned the television on and is watching a news channel.

“And here I was thinking you were technologically impaired,” Dean says, striding to the kitchen. The angel doesn’t respond to him. He reaches into the refrigerator to grab a beer (i.e. the breakfast of champions and alcoholics). Pulling off the cap, he turns to stare at the back of the other man’s head. “We need to change your dressings before we leave today. I can’t have you passing out on me while we’re out on a hunt.”

Castiel turns his head to give Dean a quizzical look. “A hunt?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “You have to come with me, too. There’s no way in hell I’m leaving you here by yourself.”

“But why? What use am I on a… a ‘hunt’ in this condition?” he asks as Dean sips from his beer.

The demon pulls a small loop of keys from his pocket and unlocks the closet. He grabs the large medical kid from it and brings it over to put down next to Castiel.

“Shirt off,” he says simply, and as he opens the kit, the angel works on undoing the buttons. “I’m not going to lie, you’ll probably end up being more of a pain-in-the-ass on this trip than anything else. But I don’t trust you alone, so you’ve gotta come with me.”

Dean wants to burst into laughter when he sees the angel’s face; the guy is practically _pouting_ , and if an all-powerful angel _pouting_ isn’t the funniest thing he’s ever seen in his life, then he doesn’t know what is. Somehow, though, he keeps it together and is able to contain himself to a shit-eating grin as he opens a bottle of antibiotic ointment.

“I see no reason why you shouldn’t trust me,” Castiel snaps. “I have been nothing if not pliant and yielding. Besides, I would serve to be much more dangerous if I were out with you, wouldn’t I? I could kill you out there, smash your head against a rock, and then I’d be free. And surely I could bribe someone to get this cuff off me, or else break it off myself.”

The threat doesn’t rattle Dean in the least bit. Instead, his smile stays plastered to his face, and he shrugs. “Go ahead and try that, then. But I’d much rather see it coming then leave you here and let you get the jump on me.” He cuts through the layers of wrap around the angel’s ribs and begins removing the gauzes sticking to the newly formed scabs.

Castiel doesn’t argue anymore, but he continues to pout, letting Dean clean and replace the soiled bandages. The coating of bruises on his ribs and stomach has brightened, becoming a sickening blue and red where he’d been struck. Dean, however, is just glad that the cuts are no longer glowing. He doesn’t spare Castiel any roughness, ignoring the grunts and suppressed whimpers of pain as he rubs in the ointment and redresses the wounds. When he’s finished, he wipes his slightly bloodied fingers on his jeans and packs up the kit, ignoring the angel who is stretching and flexing in an attempt to loosen the tight fabric.

“Thank you,” Castiel murmurs as Dean puts the equipment away and locks the closet.

The words make Dean internally squirm. “Don’t mention it. Besides, you’re the one that’s going to be running around all day. Just try not to tear those open again.”

Dean grabs his beer from the floor on his way back to the kitchen. Fishing around one of the drawers, he finally pulls out a heavily used notebook and flips through a few pages until he finds the one he wants.

“Okay. Looks like the next hunts are a possible rugaru down in Arkansas or a black dog two towns over. Based on the sorry state you’re in, we probably shouldn’t go very far, so I think we’ll get the dog today.” He finishes his beer in a final gulp before pitching it in the trash. “Alright. Stuff’s already in the car. You ready to go?”

Castiel starts, looking between Dean and the refrigerator. “What about breakfast?”

“Done,” Dean shrugs. “Had it with my good friend Jack Daniels.” He grabs the notebook and stows it under his arm. “Now, come on.”

Castiel looks back towards the television, and the demon can see his shoulders rise and fall with a heavy breath. The man finally gets to his feet, however, seeming a bit shaky as he hobbles his way over to the kitchen.

“ _I_ need a proper breakfast,” he says. “If you do not want to make it, I will do it myself, but the fact of the matter is that I _do_ need to eat. It will quicken the healing process.”

Groaning, Dean rolls his eyes. “Seriously? Look, man, I’m all for food, but we can stop somewhere on the road. We got time to kill anyway. Let’s just _go_.”

“You’re right. We _do_ have time to kill,” Cas snaps, “which means there is plenty of time for me to sit down and eat.”

The demon breathes in slowly through his nose, adjusting his stance as he crosses his arms over his chest. “ _Look_ ,” he growls, lowering his voice. “Even if I _was_ willing to feed you, I don’t _have_ any freaking _food_. So unless you want to dump salt and ketchup down your throat, I suggest you get your ass to the car. Alright?”

There’s a long, tense silence as they glare at each other. Dean sees the way Castiel’s shoulders rise, as if trying to flaunt his wings in a gesture of power, but they’re useless now, invisible to Dean’s eye.

“Fine,” Castiel finally concedes. He turns sharply (or as sharply as one in his condition can) and walks straight out the door, his posture much sturdier and composed, probably just in an attempt to not seem weak.

Dean lets out an irritable sigh, running his hands over his face. Geez, if he was going to get stuck with an angel, couldn’t the guy at least have been less of an asshole? Still, Dean continues to chant, “two mil,” over and over in his head, reminding himself of what is in store if he doesn’t screw this up. It doesn’t do _much_ for his current frustration, but it helps reign it in just a bit.

His fingers are itching something terrible, and he regrets that they’re going after the black dog. Sure, it’s an easy job, but black dogs are just spirits. They’re intangible. It doesn’t matter how hard he tries, Dean won’t get to take out his anger on it. He won’t be able to sink his hands in and feel the break of its bones, or the warmth of its flesh as he tears out its organs. It’s something he would have loved to have done with the vampires last night, and he’d only refrained from it because they were already tough sons of bitches to catch in the first place.

He licks his lips and takes in a deep breath. He can control himself for the time being. Hopefully this hunt will be done in a single night, and then he can go after that rugaru. Sure, he’ll have to burn the son of a bitch to a crisp, but he can still knock it around a little bit before he kills it.

Castiel is sitting in the passenger seat, looking appropriately grumpy and moody with his arms rigid at his sides. The shirt is way too big on him and looks ridiculous. He doesn’t spare Dean even a passing glance as the demon climbs into the shining Impala, perhaps the one thing in Dean’s life that he completely swoons over. It’s a beautiful car, with blood, sweat and tears ingrained in the old leather seats.

He takes a moment to run his hands over the steering wheel and admire the way the seat is fitted perfectly to him. He can’t imagine having a better car. Passed down from his father, it’s essentially the only thing he has left of his family, but he refuses to think too much about that as he starts her engine. The car vibrates with the power of her motor and a sideways glance at his passenger tells him that the angel is vaguely uncomfortable (as per usual).

Castiel chances a look around, one hand touching the dashboard and the other splaying across the door.

“You act like you’ve never been in a car before,” Dean remarks as he pulls out of the driveway.

The angel looks behind them as they back up and moves his hands to his lap, nervously fidgeting with them. “I haven’t.”

Dean is forced to do a double take, unable to believe his ears. “Dude, seriously? How have you never ridden in a car?”

“Angels have no need for them,” Castiel shrugs, looking out the window. His shoulders are tense, and his hands are soon tightly grasping his knees. “Flying is faster than any known means of artificial travel. For one of my kind to be in my situation is… unusual.”

“Huh. Well, I guess that makes sense. Still weird, though,” Dean grumbles.

The silence that falls between them now is a little less tense, but Dean’s never been one for quiet. He reaches for the radio and turns it up, needing only a moment to realize what cassette is in. As soon as he does, a huge grin spreads over his face. He cranks it up and begins singing along with James Hetfield, making his own improvised guitar sounds when it gets to the bridge. He catches Castiel openly staring at him, as if he’s fearing for Dean’s sanity, and the demon just grins.

“Come on! It’s Metallica. _Some kind of monsteerrrrrrr_!”

Castiel blinks, but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he shakes his head and mutters something that the demon can’t hear. He doesn’t care, though. If Feathers over there doesn’t like his music, Dean doesn’t care—just as long he keeps his cakehole shut.

A half hour later, Dean turns down the music as he pulls into a diner. Castiel has relaxed some, though his knuckles are still white where he’s gripping his knees. Once they stop, he swears he can hear the angel give the tiniest sigh of relief.

“We’re in public, so make sure your sleeve’s pulled down. We don’t need anyone to see that cuff of yours and start asking questions. Capiche?” Dean warns.

Once he’s gotten a nod from his companion, he gets out of the car. Castiel trails behind him as they enter the restaurant, and Dean’s sure to pick a spot in the far back for them to sit. They slide into a booth together, and once menus are in their hands, Dean turns to the angel again.

“Seven dollar limit on whatever you get. I’m not made out of money,” he says.

“Seven?” Cas asks, looking back to the menu. “You were on a hunt yesterday, correct? Did you not get paid?”

“Of course I got paid. But not a lot. Hunting doesn’t exactly bring in the dough.”

The angel squints. “Is that why you don’t have any bread in your house?”

Christ. What was wrong with this guy? “Dough as in _money_?” he says slowly, raising a brow. “Were you raised under a rock or something?”

Castiel huffs, doing that almost-pout thing again as his shoulders tense. “I apologize for not being up-to-date with your ridiculous euphemisms.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “But seriously. Seven dollars. I still have to pay the mortgage, the utilities, Sa—“ He stops himself before he can make the mistake of bringing _that_ up. It’s been three years; he thought he he’d stop making that mistake. The demon licks his lips and diverts his gaze to his own menu, scanning the entrees with limited interest. “Stuff like that. I don’t really have that much money to waste.” _Except on alcohol and gambling_ , a voice in his head reminds him.

A waitress approaches them, and Dean gives her an appraising look before flashing her a smile. She returns it briefly, but only before turning almost her entire attention to Castiel. She takes their orders (Dean always gets the same thing, and Castiel seems to just pick something quickly off the menu) before disappearing back to the kitchen.

It leaves the two men at a silent table again, and Dean wonders if this is going to become a pattern—going to diners and hunting together. He wouldn’t mind it, really. He’s used to being alone, and most of the time he can convince himself that he prefers it that way, but he knows it’s not the true. The thing is, though, that Castiel won’t stop _staring_ at him. He wonders if that’s an angel thing or if the dude’s just nervous (what reason would he have _not_ to be?). Either way, it makes Dean’s skin crawl.

After they’ve received their drinks, Castiel asks, “When did you start hunting?”

“Huh?” Dean turns his attention to the angel, mind having wandered a little bit. “Uh, when I was a kid. It’s sort of a family thing.”

“Your parents are also hunters?”

“Uh, no. Just my dad.”

“What does your mother do?”

There’s that itch in his fingers again. Dean looks out the window in an attempt to find a distraction, but it’s difficult. Of all the topics Castiel could have chosen…

“I apologize. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable,” the angel says after a considerable silence. He waits a beat before asking, “The room I’m in—does it belong to someone else? It seems rather… lived in.”

Suddenly Dean is wishing they could just go back to the other topic.

“It’s my brother’s room,” he says stiffly, continuing to not make eye contact.

“Oh,” Castiel nods. “If he’ll be returning soon, then I could take up residence on the couch. I don’t mind.”

The Winchester huffs out his nose, a grim half-smile twisting his lips. “Uh, yeah. I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that. He’s not coming home.”

“Oh,” he repeats. “Is he—?”

“Just drop it,” Dean sighs, sounding more tired than angry. “I’m not talking about it.”

Cas bobs his head in understanding. They don’t say anything for a while, listening to other’s conversations rather than engaging in their own. Fifteen minutes pass, and Castiel asks, “Why do you hunt? I was under the impression that a contract killer like yourself was more common among humans, and you said yourself that you do not make much money. It seems to me that a demon such as yourself would have several other options available to him.”

“It’s the family business,” he shrugs. “A lot of people have told me I’d make a killing doing crossroads deals, but…” He rolls his shoulders. When he looks back at the angel, however, there’s a mischievous grin on his face. “Besides, hunting’s a lot more fun. It’s _mostly_ not against the law, and what other job do you get to rip people apart?”

He sees something flash in Castiel’s eyes, and it makes him wonder if his comment just reminded the guy that Dean’s a demon. With all he’s been doing—hunting, drinking beer, watching television, he probably seems downright human.

He wonders what the angel’s been taught about his kind. After all, angels and demons almost never mix; they stick to their assigned territories, just as the humans do. Sure, there will sometimes be some asshole “supervisors” that roll in from Heaven, but they never stay for long. Just enough to make sure the demons aren’t conspiring (though, really, when are demons _not_ conspiring?).

He wonders if he’s the first demon that Castiel’s ever seen. He wonders what the guy expected from him. They probably teach everyone in Archangel Michael’s Brainwashing School that demons are blood-bathing, psychotic savages, hell-bent on destroying everything and everyone that isn’t like them. Which, in a sense, is right. Except Dean likes to think they’re a bit more civilized than that. Hell, look at Crowley! Dude’s one of the most influential and powerful demons in the region but can probably count on one hand the number of people he’s actually killed.

 “I see,” Castiel says, and his tone gives nothing away.

“What about you?” he asks. “What’d you do before… you know?”

It’s Castiel’s turn to feel awkward. The angel looks out the window, looks at the table, takes a sip of his drink. Does everything he can to postpone answering.

“I’d rather not talk about it,” the angel finally replies, and Dean could freaking hit him.

“Come on, man! You can’t give me the third degree about _my_ life and then not tell me about yourself. That’s not fair.”

“I wasn’t aware that being ‘fair’ was a popular trait among your kind.”

Though he should probably be a bit offended, Dean can’t help the grin that spreads over his face. Sure, the angel has already proven that he can be a freaking pain, but he has to appreciate the sass.

“Eh, probably not,” he chuckles. “Still, not cool, dude.”

Castiel sighs heavily and glances around the diner. “Perhaps later. I don’t think it would be wise for me to go into personal details about myself in public.”

While it’s definitely logical, his curiosity has already been piqued. “Well, give me the Safe For Work version, then.”

The angel stares at him quizzically for a long moment, but when his shoulders sag, Dean knows he’s won.

“I was… a soldier. A guard,” he murmurs. He shifts in his seat and plays with the cuff of metal beneath his sleeve. “We are assigned occupations at a very young age, once it is obvious what are skill sets are. We spend the next few decades honing that skill, being educated. We go through apprenticeships, and around our first century, we take up our assigned jobs.”

“Huh.”

Dean looks Castiel over, allowing himself a moment to really appreciate the guy. There’s no lying; if this had been any other person—any other _thing_ —then Dean would have had him in his bed in no time. Even with his stupid, messy hair and ridiculously colored eyes, the guy is handsome (and, if he’s being honest, Dean _did_ have to almost completely undress him in order to tend his wounds, and the rest of his body was just as nice). It hadn’t even crossed his mind that Castiel might be older than thirty or so years of age. He’s heard stories, of course, of how long angels could live to be. Michael, the King, is rumored to be over a millenium.

“How old are you, anyway?” Dean asks.

“I’m nearing three hundred, I believe.”

Dean releases a low whistle, leaning back in his seat. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“We age much slower than you do,” he nods. “We reach maturation around ninety.”

Dean wants to ask him why he was bleeding out in the woods. He wants to know, _desperately_ , what the angel was doing out there. But he knows how futile asking the question right now would be. He knows how _dangerous_ it would be to ask him here, too, surrounded by so many people.

Their food comes. Despite his earlier nagging about food, though, Castiel barely picks at his omelet. Dean, on the other hand, eats like a starving man.

A few minutes pass before Castiel asks, “Dean, you said you love to hunt and to… ‘rip people apart.’ Why did you not kill _me_ , then?” The demon stops eating, looking up at Cas over his burger. “I was perfectly vulnerable. I would have been a prime victim for you. Yet you saved me. Why?”

 _Shit, shit, shit._ The only answer Dean can think of to that is the truth. He lowers his food back to the plate and wipes his mouth with a napkin.

“Who says I still won’t?”

“I do.” There’s the staring again, but it’s different this time. It’s much more intense, and for a moment, Dean is reminded of what _Castiel_ is: an angel, a celestial being capable of so much more destruction than himself, held back only by some wounds and a thin ring of metal. There’s power in his gaze, destruction and forgotten battles. And though he’ll never admit it, the mere look makes the demon _fear_.

“You wouldn’t encourage me to heal and take me out with you if you were planning to hurt me later. You wouldn’t even bother with this conversation. So why?”

When the angel speaks again, it breaks Dean out of his trance. He tears himself away from the image of catastrophic tidal waves that Castiel’s eyes bring, coming back to reality and the now.

“You’re an angel,” he shrugs, speaking quietly. “One way or another, I figured you’d be useful.”

They don’t speak again, not while they’re in the diner. Dean figures there’s really nothing left to say after that. When Dean pulls money from his wallet, though, a picture falls out. He curses, grabs it quickly and shoves it back in. The look he shoots Cas tells him not to ask, not to even dare _mention_ it, and he doesn’t.

They have a job to do, and Dean’s had enough talking for one day.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hunt is more than a success, but Castiel isn't pleased with Dean's idea of how they should celebrate.

The hunt goes about as well as Dean could have hoped. There’s not much interviewing to do; the guy who ordered the contract already had all the information ready. Apparently the only reason the black dog hasn’t been taken out yet is because it’s only taken a handful of humans who have walked by, and in a town composed of demons, no one’s really complaining. However, it’s bad for business, and no one in town’s looking to stick their neck out to kill it. Which leaves Dean.

The spirit haunts a stretch of road that serves as the entrance to town. When Castiel asks for a salt-loaded shotgun, Dean laughs and tells him to forget about it. Besides, even if he _was_ willing to give the guy a gun, the angel still can’t lift his one arm higher than his shoulder, and he’s got a bit of a limp in his walk. Just the recoil of the shot would knock him on his ass.

Castiel stays right behind Dean, practically stepping on his heels. It’s annoying, sure, but Dean would rather him be too close than too far away. The dog shows up a few minutes after midnight. It’s big, but Dean’s tussled with rogue hellhounds that were even bigger. It stalks the road, bearing its teeth and growling at Dean as it steps closer, eyes red beacons in the night.

Dean makes sure he’s loaded and takes aim. Just as he’s about to shoot, however, the dog stills. It stares past him, gaze locked on the angel. Then the strangest thing happens: the thing _whimpers_. It sticks its tail between its legs, shakes, and whines, barking loudly at the pair as if trying to scare them away. Dean takes a moment to look back at Cas, but then aims and fires into the dog.

It disappears into thin black smoke, but Dean knows that’s not the last of it. He reaches into his pocket for the hex bag and throws it into the road. Gun tucked beneath one arm, he’s able to light a match and set the bag aflame. As soon as he does, the dog reappears again. It’s behind them this time, barking and growling, staring Castiel right in the face as it does so. It’s scared, and Dean can’t blame it. He’s pretty sure that if the angel still had his mojo, he could send the thing away with a touch.

A few lines of spell later, and the dog disappears, seemingly dragged into the concrete by black, shadowy hands. The hex bag sizzles and burns out, leaving the demon and angel alone on the road in an anticlimactic silence.

“You’re more useful than you look,” Dean smirks. He puts the scrap of paper with the incantation on it back in his pocket and starts heading back to his car. “I don’t know if I like that. I normally have to roll around with those guys for a bit before I can get finished with the banishing. Kind of boring with you here.”

“I apologize that you didn’t get to rip it to pieces,” Castiel replies. He looks back to where the black dog was pulled underground. “It could sense what I was.”

“I’m not surprised.” Dean pushes past the angel to the trunk, putting his weapon away. “Animals, even the not-so-natural ones, can usually tell what you are. That bracelet ties down your powers, but you still look… different, I guess. Pretty sure anyone could just take a look at you and still tell you’re not a demon.”

“Do you think that will be a problem?”

“Nah.” Dean shakes his head. “You can pass as a human—blame the weirdness on being psychic or something. It’ll still look a little weird that I’m carting you around, but it’ll be fine.”

Castiel lingers outside a moment as Dean gets into the Impala. When they’re both seated, though, Dean turns around and starts driving back into town.

“Where are we going?” asks the angel.

“Gotta collect the money. Thing about ghost gigs is that you can’t really prove you’ve done the job until a few nights have gone by. I’ve got a good enough reputation around here, though, that I’m sure Harry won’t mind paying me early. Besides, once I get the money, we can pick one of the bars around and have a few drinks.”

“A bar?” Castiel looks at Dean and narrows his eyes. “Is that really necessary? Why not head back to your house after collecting the payment?”

“Because I _said so_ ,” he snaps back. The Impala turns down onto the city’s High Street, and Dean has to watch a little closer to ensure he doesn’t hit some drunk dumbass who might fall into the road from the sidewalk. “Look, dude, this is how it always goes. Hunt, money, bar. That’s how I roll.”

“So the reason that you do not have money to stock your pantry is because you spend all of it on alcohol.”

To think they’d almost had a pleasant conversation earlier. “Christ, you’re friggin’ annoying. What, they don’t let you drink in Bible School?”

Castiel bristles and turns to look out his window. “My people _do_ drink. However, I think it is irresponsible of you to be spending it in such a way. If you are intoxicated, how will you drive home?”

“Very carefully.”

Dean swears he hears the guy freaking _groan_ , and while this whole thing is irritating, he can’t help but find it a little funny.

“Look, if you don’t want to drink, that’s fine. All you have to do is sit there and not talk to anyone,” Dean says, voice thin. “I know that might be hard for you since all you ever want to _do_ is talk, but it’s only going to be, like, an hour. Not like I’m going to be taking someone home with you cock-blocking me all night.”

“I thought that if we were going to be living together for an extended amount of time, it would be good to get to know one another.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Obviously. I mean look at how much you’ve told me about yourself! I feel like we’re practically brothers.”

Seeing Harry’s apartment come into view is a fucking godsend. Dean pulls onto a side road and parks the car in the building’s lot. He gets out, gently slapping the hood of the car when Castiel doesn’t follow.

“Not leaving you alone, remember?” he calls back.

Castiel heaves a great sigh before getting out, as well. He’s fuming as he follows Dean to the front of the building, arms crossed over his chest like a child. He stays a little farther back from Dean than he had on the hunt (if you could even call it that with how easy it’d been). The hunter rings one of the apartments, and as soon as the door is buzzed open, he’s up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Admittedly, Dean snickers when he hears Castiel trip in an attempt to keep up, the muffled cry of pain almost making the demon chuckle. Serves the guy right.

Harry’s already got the door open when Dean gets there. The two greet each other with a smile, and Harry slaps him on the shoulder. He’s got a huge grin, orange hair slicked back like some 50’s greaser. Still, he’s not a bad guy. Dean’s called on him more than a few times for hex bag and ritual ingredients, and Harry’s never disappointed or tried to rip him off. He’s a good guy, as far as demons go.

“What’s up, man?” he asks, wiping his hands off on his tee-shirt. “You got that black dog cleared up?”

“Yeah. Too easy, actually,” Dean nods.

“Great. The mayor will be glad to hear it. We agreed on five, right? Minus two for the hex bag?” he asks, pulling out his wallet.

“Yeah.”

As Harry goes through and counts out the twenties from his wallet, he’s taken aback when he sees Castiel. “Friend of yours?”

Dean glances back and snorts through his nose. “Hardly. He’s, uh, in-training, I guess.”

“Human?”

“Unfortunately.”

Harry nods, not seeming at all perturbed that they weren’t actually introduced. Castiel glares at the back of Dean’s head, one hand pressed to his side where Dean knows is quite a sizable bruise.

When Harry hands him the stack of twenties, Dean counts them once more himself. When he’s made sure that he has the right amount, he bobs his head at the guy.

“Alright. You guys get anything else you need me to handle, tell Briggs he can call me.”

“Yeah. See you later.”

“Later.”

The door shuts as Dean turns around, folding the thick stack of twenties and inserting it into his wallet. Castiel stares at it until the demon’s put it away, then looks back up.

“That seemed like quite a bit of money.”

“Eh. It was three hundred, so not bad,” Dean shrugs, heading back to the stairs.

“I thought you said that hunters were not paid well.”

“We’re not.” Dean reaches the bottom of the steps and takes a moment to look back and wait for Castiel. “If I hadn’t had to borrow two hundred for the hex bag supplies, I would have gotten half a grand.” Once Castiel joins him on the first floor, Dean heads outside. “The thing is this week’s kind of a miracle. You typically get maybe two or three hunts a month, get maybe two thousand a month. That vamp I was hunting yesterday? I’ve been tracking that son of a bitch for six weeks. Got three grand for it, which is pretty decent for a single hunt, but when you add everything up, it’s still barely enough to survive. Getting three hunts in one week happens about as often as winning the lottery.”

He walks past the Impala, heading to High Street. Castiel stumbles over his feet, confused for just a moment before he continues following Dean.

“And then, even with that money, you have to make sure you’re stocked and your weapons are up-to-date, split if you’ve, uh, if you’ve got a partner. If you need something special and expensive for a hunt, the customer will sometimes reimburse you the cost for it, but not very often. Point is, I make enough to live.”

“And purchase alcohol.”

“Alcohol and living are the same thing in my book.”

“It doesn’t seem terribly professional, the exchange.”

“Well, most people don’t exactly approve of the use of a contractor. This way, Briggs gets to say he put his own team on it, keep his dignity, and not risk any of his people getting hurt. And he pays less, too, so…”

It’s a Thursday night, so the street isn’t terribly crowded, but it’s also the prime drinking hour. Dean looks up and down the sidewalk, trying to make a decision, and without warning he’s heading through the crowd, working his way toward a little hole-in-the-wall down the street.

Castiel struggles to keep up, apologizing to all the people he has to basically shove aside in order to keep Dean in his eyesight. Dean is kind enough to wait for him at the door, however, and ushers him inside.

It’s rather full, only a handful of tables open, but that’s not what is important. Dean walks over to the bar, taking a seat on the corner. Castiel doesn’t take the empty seat next to him, but instead takes the adjacent seat on the corner, giving him a good view of the entire establishment, including the front door.

“Two of whatever you’ve got on tap,” Dean tells the bartender.

“Two seems to be getting ahead of yourself,” Castiel says. He doesn’t look at Dean once, though, his eyes scanning the room over and over again.

“Uh, the other one’s for you.”

That gets the angel’s attention. He snaps his gaze to Dean, incredulous. “Why?”

“Because a beer in you might make you bitch a little less,” he replies.

“Dean, I do not want any alcohol.”

“Why not? It’s good for you.”

Castiel looks like he’s barely stopping himself from rolling his eyes. “It is not _good_ for you. Besides, there is no reason for me to drink.”

“Except to get that stick out of your ass.” Dean smiles at the bartender in thanks when the two beers are set down in front of them.

Castiel closes his eyes a moment and mutters something beneath his breath. When he opens them back up, he stares accusingly at the mug before him, as if it had somehow offended him.

“Come on, man. Drink up. You’ve had some beers in your life, haven’t you? One more’s not going to hurt.”

Dean doesn’t wait for him before he started drinking his own. It is ice cold, the hops strong and creating a beautiful taste on his tongue. It isn’t as potent as he would like, but what it lacks in alcohol, it make up for in flavor. When he looks at Castiel, the angel is still staring at his drink.

“I don’t drink,” he says.

“You had a beer last night.”

“That was my first one. I thought it would be rude to decline, but I prefer to abstain from alcohol.”

And Dean can barely believe his ears. “Seriously? I thought you said you guys had beer.”

“We have brothels, as well, but that doesn’t mean I frequent them.”

Dean sighs, setting his mug down on the counter. “Either you drink it, or I will, and then you’ll have to deal with my drunk ass driving us home.” It isn’t much of a threat, not if one knows the truth. This beer is weak by his standards, and even if it wasn’t, he’s reached the point where it takes nearly five drinks to start feeling even the slightest bit tipsy.

Still, his threat works. Castiel lifts the mug and lets his lips hover near the edge of it while he inhales. A grimace, and then he starts drinking… and doesn’t _stop_ drinking, not until the entire mug is gone. He sits the glass down with a sigh, licking his lips.

“It was not awful,” he says, bobbing his head.

The look of astonishment that had appeared on his face quickly turns into surprised laughter. Castiel looks up at him, as if wondering what he could have possibly done to create such a change in demeanor, but Dean shakes his head and takes a long sip of his drink.

“Damn, dude. You’re supposed to enjoy it.”

Castiel replies with a half-shrug, holding the mug between his hands. They sit like that for about fifteen minutes, Dean taking his time to finish his mug, happy to sit there and listen to the old school rock ‘n’ roll coming from the loudspeakers.

The other patrons are getting more intoxicated by the minute. Dean’s thankful that Castiel hasn’t tried to start up any conversation yet, though he keeps sneaking a glance out of the corner of his eye to see if there are any signs of intoxication. Unfortunately (or fortunately, who knows), there aren’t, but he makes a mental note that they might have to try and get Castiel drunk one day. After all, how many demons can say they’ve hung out with a plastered angel and _not_ been smote?

Dean later finds himself turning his gaze to the rest of the bar. He can’t help it; it’s muscle memory. He scouts, green eyes honing in on anyone who looks even the slightest bit interesting.

And then he sees her. She is an absolute babe. Her dress is short, clinging to every curve of her body, exposing her breasts in a way that has to only be barely legal. She looks at him, blood-red lips curling up in a seductive smile as she gives him a short wave. After a moment, she pushes herself up from her seat, excusing herself to her friends, and starts walking towards him. Shit, maybe he _can_ take her home. Castiel can just hide in the spare bedroom with a pillow over his head or something, because there’s no way Dean’s letting this one go.

Smiling his usual cocky grin, he turns on the stool so that he’s facing her directly. But something’s wrong. Because she doesn’t start to slow down, and her gaze is just a little off…

Dean’s face falls, and the woman takes a moment to chuckle at him before rounding the bar and standing next to Castiel.

“Well, hey there,” she says, and _god_ , Dean would _so_ not mind hearing that voice in his bed. She leans her forearms on the bar and squishes her breasts together. She leans her head down slightly, soft curls of black hair falling from behind her neck.

Castiel looks between her and Dean several times before turning his attention to her. With the blood drained from his face, he looks shaken. He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

“Hello. May I help you?” he asks, a slight tremor in his voice.

“I can think of a few ways you could help me, actually.”

She turns so that Castiel is sitting eyelevel with cleavage and runs a hand over his thigh, fingers sliding up and up until the angel says, “I-I’m sorry. I don’t believe I understand.”

The woman chuckles, somehow finding this amusing. She leans in, presses her mouth against Castiel’s ear, and whispers something. The look of horror on his face makes Dean have to bite his tongue to stop from laughing, the angel’s face turning bright red.

“I-I, uh, _no_?”

Staring up at her, his eyes are the widest and most scared that Dean’s ever seen. The woman laughs at that reaction, though, and slides her hand somewhere under the bar. It makes Castiel jerk, though, and he puts a hand on her chest and shoves her away.

Well, she’s not smiling anymore. She glares at him, torn between anger and embarrassment, it seems.

“What the hell?” she snaps.

Castiel stutters back, “I am not interested in having sexual intercourse with you. Please, leave me alone.”

They hold each other’s gazes for a few seconds, and then she huffs and shakes her head, starting to storm away.

“Hey, baby, I’m sure _I_ could help you out,” Dean can’t help but call out, flashing her a huge grin.

She doesn’t say anything, just gives him a glare that makes him thankful that she’s not— _probably_ not—a witch. He turns back to Castiel, unable to stop himself from laughing.

“Dude, what the hell was that?” he asks, cheeks hurting from how hard he’s smiling. “I mean, I thought you’d be a cockblock, but I didn’t think you’d be freaking _stealing_ the attention. Doubt anyone’s coming for you after that little showdown.”

“Good,” Castiel huffs, obviously still flustered.

“You could have totally had her, though. Why say no?”

Castiel loosens his grip on the mug he’s been clinging to for the last half-hour, rolling it between his fingers.

“I am simply not interested. Besides, I thought you didn’t want to let me out of your sight?”

“There’s always a quickie in the bathroom.”

The look of horror and disgust on his face was priceless. “I think not. I have no interest in sex with strangers.”

Dean rolls his eyes and taps the bar to get the bartender’s attention. “Freaking angels, I swear,” he tsks playfully, shaking his head. “God, you’d think you’d never even kissed a girl before.”

The quiet that follows that comment is disconcerting. Dean pays for their drinks, then looks over, confused.

“I mean… you _have_ kissed a girl before, haven’t you? Or a dude? Or _someone_?” he asks slowly.

“I have never had the occasion,” Castiel mutters into his empty glass.

The demon stares at him for a few seconds, dumbfounded. “But… How? I mean, you have to have people crawling all over you. Hell, if you weren’t _you_ , I’d have already tried. But, come on, there had to be some willing people back home, at _some_ point.”

Castiel’s cheeks flush red, and he starts to frown. “I guess there might have been one or two persons, but I was never interested. I was dedicated to my work and did not have time for such trivialities as sexual or romantic relationships.”

Dean shakes his head. “Well, you don’t have work anymore—unless you count standing around and glaring at Lassie.”

“But I am not interested in casual sex.”

Dean shrugs, getting to his feet. “Well, if you’re looking for a relationship first, it seems like you’re gonna be shit out of luck. Now, come on. Let’s go home. Xena and her followers are looking like they want to flay the skin off our bones.”

Castiel stands and follows Dean outside to the car. He keeps his head down the whole way, not even doing his creepy staring thing once the engine roars and they’re tearing down High Street.

“Dude,” Dean chuckles, “You need to get laid.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The problem with angels is that they're self-righteous dickbags.

“N- _no_. I can’t do that.” Dean glances over his shoulder to make sure that Castiel is still in the shower before whispering into his cell phone again. “Did you not hear my explanation? I think he might get a bit suspicious if I decide to just pop into your place for awhile.”

“I’m sorry, that doesn’t sound like my problem,” Crowley says on the other end, voice grating against Dean’s ears.

“Well, look. We’re going on a hunt tonight. Rugaru, should take a couple days. We’ll come back from that, go to Eddie’s for a drink, and then bump into you there,” Dean tries. He sighs heavily and rubs at his eyes. “That’s the best I can do. And I can come sign the contract the next day.”

There’s a long pause on the phone, but Dean exhales in relief when Crowley says, “Monday night, then? I will be there from eleven to midnight. I won’t bother you for too long; I just need to get a good idea of what you’re offering me.”

“Thank you,” he says. “Yeah, I’ll see you then.”

Dean closes his phone with a sigh and stuffs it in his pocket. Well, at least it’s not going to be _too_ awkward. And as long as Crowley doesn’t ask Castiel if he can do a health check-up, then the angel shouldn’t notice anything.

Still, the phone call reminded him of what exactly he’s doing: selling Castiel off to Crowley, who will do who knows _what_ with him. Dean doesn’t feel guilty, though, or that’s at least what he tells himself as he wipes his palms on his jeans. Castiel’s an angel, after all. He’s not a demon, not even a human. Dean doesn’t owe him a damn thing, and he _shouldn’t_ feel guilty about this.

However, he can see how it might turn that way in the future. Dean hadn’t expected Castiel to talk to him so much, and every time they talked, it was going to make it harder to sell him. It’s like when you find a stray dog; if you name it and play with it, you’re probably going to end up keeping it, and Dean doesn’t plan on keeping Castiel.

He resolves to stop their conversations from here on out. He’ll keep it to what they need to say to coexist, but that’s it. And Castiel will surely get with the program after having his attempts at talking to Dean shot down a few times.

He hears the shower turn off and glances over to the front door, where there are two duffels sitting. He’d been sure to pack up most of the medical supplies for this trip, leaving only enough out so that they could wrap the angel up once he was out of the shower. Castiel can get most of them himself, but still requires help with wrapping his shoulder once the gauze is on.

Dean stands as Castiel comes out with a flannel and an undershirt in his hands. He winces in sympathy for the guy, because the bruises smattering his ribs, stomach, and back can’t be too comfortable. The new bracelet looks a lot better on him, though. When they got home last night, Dean took some time to etch the Enochian on something that looked a little less primeval. It’s a thin band, the symbols covering the underside of the jewelry where they can’t be seen. Dean’s just glad that he was too lazy in the past to sell some it. Not everyone paid him in cash, of course, and he had an entire box of necklaces, bracelets, and rings that he’d yet to take to the pawn shop.

He doesn’t have to say anything to beckon the angel over. The man walks forward and stands in front of Dean. The demon grabs the tape and roll of bandages off the small wooden coffee table and wraps him up quickly.

The more he has to stare at and fix these wounds, the more he wants to ask what happened. But, he reminds himself, he’s not doing conversations anymore. He can’t risk growing attached or sympathetic (not that he _would_ , anyway).

“Did you sleep well?” Castiel asks, and Dean nearly rolls his eyes.

“Fine,” he says, taping the end of the bandage down. “How’s the movement?”

Castiel flexes his arm a bit, then looks up at Dean. “It’s better than yesterday, but still rather useless.”

Dean doesn’t realize until this moment how close they’re standing. He can’t help glancing down at the angel’s body, his lips, and then back to his eyes, before he grunts out, “Personal space.”

“My apologies.” The angel takes a step back. He lays the flannel on the back of the couch, then begins to very delicately—and awkwardly—put the undershirt on, trying not to hurt his stitches or bend the wrong way. “If it’s not too much trouble,” he says after he’s got the undershirt situated, “I was wondering if I might be able to get my own clothes cleaned and repaired. I know that the jacket bears Heaven’s seal, but the outfit holds some sentimentality for me.”

“Yeah. Leave the jacket here and grab the rest; we’ll drop it off at the cleaners on our way out of town.”

Castiel nods, finishes putting on the plaid shirt, and then turns away, hobbling to his room with a bit more grace than the last two days. He comes back with his clothes folded neatly in his arms, most of the bulk and dried blood consisting of a tan trench coat that lies on the bottom. Dean nods his head and turns around without a word. He grabs the bags by the door and waits for Castiel to join him outside before closing and locking the door behind him.

“You’re hunting a rugaru this time, correct?” Castiel asks as he climbs into the Impala.

“Yep.”

The angel stares at him while he starts up the car, fiddling with the clothes in his lap.

“Why?” he asks.

“It’s killing people,” Dean answers shortly.

“Are you getting paid by the city again, or—“

“Individual, who’s getting paid by Heaven.”

“Oh.”

They drive off. Dean drops the clothes off at the dry cleaners before booking it out of town. He reaches over to turn the music up, but then Castiel starts talking again.

“Your house—did it used to belong to your parents?”

Dean’s really glad he’s decided on this whole “no talking” thing.

“Why do you keep asking me all this shit?” he snaps.

Castiel seems startled in the passenger seat, and he stares at Dean. “I’m making polite conversation,” he says. “As I said last night, I thought that since we will be living together for a month, it would be wise to get to know each other and be amicable.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not.” Dean takes a heavy breath, staring out at the road. “Look, I don’t want to be your friend. That’s not why you’re here. You’re here to pay me back and heal. I don’t care about you or your family or your problems, and you should take the same attitude with me. Okay?”

“But, Dean—“

“ _I don’t care_ , Castiel. And I sure as hell don’t want you digging around in my life. Alright?”

He doesn’t bother looking at Castiel—doesn’t want to, really. He can feel the hurt radiating off the angel like a fucking nuclear power plant, and by the time they roll into Magnolia, Dean’s regretting having told him. They stopped only once on their eight-hour trip to get food, and Castiel only opened his mouth to give the waitress his order.

Dean’s pretty sure that the angel’s Ice Queen routine is a lot worse than him being a chatterbox.

He doesn’t care, of course. After all, why should he? But it still makes everything tense and awkward. Hopefully they’ll move to a platonic, non-loathing silence by the end of this trip, but that seems very unlikely. Every movement Dean makes is watched, glared at. Anytime he clears his throat or tries to turn up the radio, he can feel those angry blue eyes boring into the side of his head.

In Arkansas, Dean finds a motel in the city and rents a room for the weekend. He doesn’t even react when the woman at the desk assumes that they’re “quarreling lovers” and clarifies that he wants two beds, not one.

Castiel doesn’t say anything when they load the bags into the room. He doesn’t say anything when Dean suggests they go to bed early tonight so that they snoop around for leads tomorrow. He doesn’t even say anything when they wake up in the morning and Dean has to wrap his shoulder again.

It’s off-putting and creepy—and for a demon to be thinking that, that’s saying something.

Dean brought them more professional attire to wear for the hunt. There’s a suit for each of them, but Castiel’s is a little too big. Hopefully no one will question their legitimacy, though. Of course, there’s nothing illegal about bounty-hunting anyone that isn’t one of the Big Three (angels have always been righteously against the ‘abominations’ they consider monsters, and the only reason demons aren’t on their extermination list is because of their sheer numbers and that they’re good threats to hold over the humans). But real citizens often don’t like them, and you’ll fare much better if they think you’re a fed than if they think you’re a hunter.

They hit a diner early Saturday morning. The angel seems to be doing a lot better; he doesn’t limp as much, at least, but his arm is still out of commission. Dean hasn’t granted him a weapon, and he won’t, not for this trip—giving a pissed-off angel a blowtorch would probably not be the smartest decision he’d ever made.

Dean, on the other hand, looks like he hasn’t slept in days. Of course, he’s accustomed to running on four hours of sleep, but that doesn’t mean he enjoys it. He clutches his cup of coffee tightly, staring into it since it makes better company than the angel.

“So, we don’t know who the rugaru exactly _is_ ,” Dean says after a spell, “but we know that it’s a man who most likely lives in the southern district, since that’s where all the murders have taken place. If we can get to the most recent crime scene on Green Street, we can talk to a few witnesses and see if there isn’t any strange evidence that the locals haven’t picked up on yet.”

“We?” It’s only one word, a single syllable, and entirely venomous, but for some reason it’s got Dean sighing with relief since it’s the first thing to have come from Castiel’s mouth in twenty-four hours.

“Just because I’m not letting you hold a weapon doesn’t mean you can’t make yourself useful in other ways,” he nods. He looks out the window next to their booth. “You were some kind of guard right? So you’ve got to know a thing or two about getting information out of people. And since we can’t do it _my_ way…”

“ _Your_ way?” Dean looks up in time to see Castiel raise an eyebrow.

“Your kind ever heard of Alastair?” the demon asks, a cocky grin creasing his lips.

Castiel nods in understanding, mouth forming a tight line.

“I was his favorite student for a reason.”

The itch is there again, not just in his fingertips, but stretching up, as if traveling through his veins. He’s glad they’ve got something tangible tonight—something that bleeds and screams. It’ll be a nice way to blow off some steam.

At least the silence that persists now isn’t permeated solely with anger. Dean can sense that some of Castiel’s attitude has shifted, though he’s not if it’s turned to disgust or fear or something else (he highly doubts it’s fear, though).

“Anyway,” Dean goes on, grateful for a different kind of awkward between them, “we’ll need to talk to the local police, witnesses, victims’ families. You think you can handle that?”

Castiel hums when he nods, and it’s the last sound Dean gets out of him for the rest of breakfast. By the time they get to the Impala, Castiel’s silence seems more contemplative than upset, and it’s a lot more bearable.

Luckily (Dean’s idea of ‘lucky’ may or may not be a little fucked up), a trip to the station reveals that there has been yet another murder—the fourth person in two weeks to be found with their stomach ripped open and half their entrails missing. The news makes Dean quiver, his entire being excited of the prospect of these murders. Now, _this_ is more his style. Not barely sliced necks and dying of death omens, but gory, bloody messes.

The police are considering that this is probably something supernatural, but haven’t decided what yet. Rugaru isn’t even on their list, which makes sense. After all, it’s genetic, so any family with the gene should already be known, and the town hasn’t had any newcomers in the right time period. The real trick is how whoever is doing this is managing to stay in town and not be noticed. The transformation isn’t exactly a beauty makeover.

  
“I do not understand why we must lie to the police. Couldn’t they serve us some assistance?” Castiel asks when they get back into the car.

“Probably,” Dean concedes, “but if this is a guy who lives in this community, they can get a bit sentimental. Try and save him, you know? Or at least lock him up where he can’t hurt anybody. Plus, I don’t get paid unless I kill him.” He sighs. “I gotta say, I hate jobs like this.” Castiel looks up at him. “There’s so much paperwork when it’s done.”

There’s something peculiar on the angel’s face, but he glances away to the window, watching the storefronts roll by.

Castiel doesn’t inquire further, but this the chattiest he’s been in a while and Dean doesn’t want to let that slip away. It’s not like they’re talking about _personal_ stuff. That’s what would get him attached, after all.

“There’s this guy, Travis. He’s a human, but he’s pretty much an expert on hunting rugaru. I heard he even gets a pension from Heaven, but he’s not in it for that. Some kind of personal vendetta, family business kind of thing, I don’t know. He’s the one who asked me to come out here. Called me the day I found you in the woods. He broke his leg, couldn’t come deal with it himself. That’s the only reason I know this is a rugaru we’re dealing with, y’know, other than the cannibalism.”

Castiel doesn’t say anything back, and Dean assumes they’re going back to not talking to each other. He’s glad for the new kind of tension in the air, though. Better awkward and weird than barely contained divine wrath.

“Since he gets paid by your people, though, and I’m doing a job for him, I’ll have to fill out all of this paperwork if I want to get my money. It’s ridiculous.”

The angel’s silence continues, and Dean sighs. Fine. They can do quiet again.

When they arrive on the crime scene, Dean parks the Impala and gets out without a word. The angel follows suit, but stops when Dean approaches him, adjusting his tie and the way his jacket falls around his shoulders. He doesn’t look terribly professional and they might look a bit odd together, but it’s going to have to do. It’s not like they’ll be in town very long, anyway. They’re on a schedule, after all.

The day goes without incident. It turns out Castiel is shit at questioning people, but Dean easily wheedles their way into the investigation, gathering up every bit of information available. The police don’t suspect a rugaru, but they think it might be some kind of wolf—supernatural or otherwise. Two of the victims belong to the Walker family and the other two are unrelated, so Dean visits the families.

They interview those closest to the victims; well, _Dean_ interviews them, and Castiel stands in the background looking vaguely pissed off. None of the people they talk to can offer anything more than confusion and sadness, though. They’re useless.

When they return to the police station, hoping to get some more information on the cage, the demon sees a flyer in one of the waste bins. It’s a missing persons case: Paul Owens, age 30, disappeared ten days ago. He was a well-respected member of the community, pitcher for the men’s recreational softball team, and an outspoken member for the PTA. He’s gone without a trace. The police claim to be looking for him, but Dean hasn’t heard anything about it since they got to town, hasn’t seen any of these papers anywhere.  

If Dean ever thought anything was suspicious…

In the afternoon, Dean visits the Owens’ house. Paul had just a wife, it seems, no kids, and lived in the southern district, within five blocks of all of the murders. She seems distressed, dabs at her eyes every now and then with a tissue when Dean asks her a question, but it’s off. She’s upset, that much he can tell. But not ‘my husband has been missing for two weeks and is probably dead’ upset. And based on the pictures throughout the house, the way her breath hitches when she says his name, the way she strokes her wedding band…

No. These two were definitely in love. And if Dean’s hunch is correct, then this is going to be more than a pain in the ass to deal with.

“So, you believe that this man, Paul Owens, is the creature that you’re looking for?” Castiel asks at dinner. It’s the first time he’s spoken since accidentally insulting the sheriff at the station by asking him if he was sure he was well-trained enough to fill the position.

“Yeah. And he sure as hell isn’t a missing person, I can tell you that.” Dean sips indignantly at his beer, pissed off at the mere idea. Being back in his normal clothes at the end of the day feels good, the restriction and irritation of dress shoes and a tie gone. “The thing about small towns like this is everybody knows everybody. If any person goes missing, it starts a shit-storm. And when it’s a guy like this Paul Owens, who was apparently everybody’s best friend? You’d think the police would put a little more into trying to find him.”

Castiel thinks about this for a moment, fingers wrapped delicately around his glass of water. “You believe that the town—or at least the police and his wife—are protecting him.”

“Bingo.”

Castiel’s face twitches with emotion, but it’s faint, and Dean can’t name it. The angel swallows and strokes his thumb across the condensation on his glass.

“So what are you going to do?” he asks, turning his gaze to look Dean in the eye.

There are lot of things he can do, though. The easiest thing would be to possess the wife, ravage her mind for information, and then go find this guy. He’s found that larger human cities often have a lot of wards and devil’s traps to keep demons at bay, but this place is too small, too inconspicuous to worry about his kind. The nearest demon city is at least a hundred miles away, and few are willing to risk the consequences of messing with humans. So, he probably doesn’t have to worry about anyone in this town having an anti-possession charm or tattoo. It’s a fairly simple and easy solution.

However, there’s then the issue of his body. Possessing people is always dangerous business, even in the comfort of your own home. Once he leaves his body to go possess that woman, he’ll be left completely unguarded. He could be attacked, killed, and wouldn’t even notice until it was nearly too late. Even if he just lays down in the motel room and lets his soul wander from there, Castiel would be the one left watching over him. Castiel could stay, he could escape—or he could cut off Dean’s head and leave him for dead.

It’s too risky. There are too many variables. Whatever he does, he has to have the angel with him. He doesn’t trust him, especially not after today where he’s spent most of his time glaring at Dean as if he’d like to watch his head explode.

That means they’ll have to stake out the Owens house, investigate it if they can, and follow this woman to see where she takes them. This mystery is almost solved. And with the way things are looking, he’ll be back in time to meet Crowley at Eddie’s Bar.

Later, they park a few houses down with a good view of the home. The lights are on, and Martha Owens is visible in the living room, watching television.

“What are we waiting for?” Castiel asks, blue gaze scanning over the perimeter of the house, taking in its details.

“Suspicious activity. If she leaves, we gotta follow. She might have him locked up in the basement or something, but nothing seemed out of place when we went there earlier.” Something occurs to him, and he looks to Castiel. “I know you’re limp right now, but can you sense them? Get any weird telepathic vibes from monsters?”

The angel blinks and turns to Dean. “No. As long as this bracelet is on, I cannot tell who is what.”

Dean hums. That’s a shame. Would’ve made life a whole lot easier.

At a quarter past one, Martha leaves her house. Dean’s eyelids have been drooping for the past hour, but now he shoots right awake.

“Hey.” He reaches over and hits Castiel in the chest. It’s muscle memory, and he’s not even aware of his action, even when the angel starts and turns to glare at him. He follows Dean’s gesture to where the woman is heading down the street, coat bundled around her and a large grocery bag in her arms.

Once she’s gone a ways, Dean gets out of the car and starts heading after her, staying on the opposite side of the street. Castiel follows at his heels, footsteps silent. He palms the makeshift torch hidden beneath his jacket, reminding himself that he is prepared. They walk for almost a half an hour before Martha stops a block away from the police station in front of an old supermarket that Dean assumed was abandoned. She runs her hands through her hair nervously before going behind the building and disappearing.

They follow quickly, and it’s easy to find where she entered. Even from outside, Dean can hear where her shoes hit the ground, and the distant whine of some creature. The door is blessedly quiet when he wrenches it open, and his practiced feet make little noise as he follows Martha through the bowels of the store.

They’re in the back, where there are abandoned boxes of produce and plastic crates scattered about. There are some lifts around, all rusted and downtrodden, some of them still with platforms topped with oversized cases of cleaning supplies. There’s a thick layer of dust on everything, and the stench of decaying rodents clings to the two as they follow Martha.

They go further and further in, the whining transforming into growling, sounds of hunger and bloodlust that Dean is more than familiar with. It reminds him of what’s to come, of the flesh and blood monster he’ll get to face, and it’s all set up so perfectly that his fingers twitch and his stomach twists in anticipation.

Dean and Castiel stop short of a room, peeking inside. It looks like the back of what was once the meat section, some of the old butcher’s tools rusting where they’ve been left on the wall. Martha is standing in front of an old walk-in freezer, visibly shaking as she sets the grocery bag on the floor.

“Martha… God, I’m so hungry… So hungry…” a voice wavers from behind the door. They can’t see who it is, but Dean is willing to bet money that it’s Paul.

“I know. I know, sweetie.” She sounds just as broken as she did when Dean interviewed her.

Martha gets down on her knees, exposing a small window on the door. Sure enough, there’s Paul with his face pressed against the glass—or what’s left of him at least. Even with the distance between them, Dean can see the paleness of his face, the way his veins seem to be trying tip free themselves from his skin, his red eyes. One-hundred-percent rugaru.

There’s the sound of plastic being ripped, and suddenly Paul is banging on the door, staring at whatever is in Martha’s hands like a man in the desert being offered water. The metal creaks and bends beneath his fists, and Dean can hear the woman give a choked sob as she thrusts it open and chucks whatever it is at her husband. Red splatters across the ground, and Paul descends on it, perfectly ravenous as he shovels every last bit of what has to be raw meat into his mouth.

The process continues over and over until Martha is surrounded by empty white cartons, her husband on his knees and leaning against the doorframe.

“Martha… Martha, I’m so sorry,” he murmurs.

She sniffs and nods her head. “I know, honey. It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

Dean’s had enough. He has things to get done, and he’s not about to waste any more time than he has to. The woman is just out of his range, though, not close enough for a flick of the hand to snap her neck. He glances back at Castiel and winks. In another moment, he steps out, thumbs in his belt loops with a cocky smirk on his face.

“I have to say, I’m a little disappointed. Thought this would be harder to figure out, honestly.”

Martha jolts to her feet, shoes squeaking as she reels around to face him. Her eyes are wide, face devoid of color as she opens and closes her mouth like a fish.

“A-agent Hammett! I—“ She stops and swallows, at a loss for words. He takes a few steps forward, and she recedes, bodily blocking him from her husband. “Please, you can’t—you have to understand.”

“Oh, I understand alright.” Dean flexes his fingers, feels something stir in his chest. “How many people do you have roped into this operation? Who’s helping you keep your husband caged up like an animal? I’m guessing the Sheriff, at least, but who else?”

“Please. Paul didn’t mean to hurt those people. We’re doing our best. We can control him. He can control himself!” She looks back at her husband. He gets to his feet slowly and takes her hand in a gesture of reassurance. He’s sated by his meal, but that will only last for a couple of hours, Dean knows.

“Honestly, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass why he did it. The point is, he’s a monster, and I’m going to kill him… Eventually.” His body is buzzing with energy, fingers itching, muscles tight and ready. “As for you.” He raises his hand, and with a snap of his fingers, he hears the bones in her neck break and she crumples to a heap on the floor.

Paul starts screaming. He falls to the floor, grabs his wife in a desperate attempt to see if she’s still alive. A smile starts to creep onto Dean’s face, and he steps forward, gaze focused on the monster at his feet. He doesn’t even hear Castiel bark out his name, not when he’s got his eyes on something he’s been wanting for a few weeks now.

He reaches into his jacket, pulls out the makeshift blowtorch that had created a bulge in it, and points it at the man, watching tears stream down his face as he brokenly cries out for his wife.

“Sheriff Donovan, he helped you guys out, didn’t he? He was in some of your pictures at your house; I’m going to take a wild guess and say that you two are pretty good friends.”

That sobers Paul up pretty quickly. He sniffs, clutches his wife to his chest, and glares daggers at the demon. “Don’t you… Don’t you dare,” he bites out.

“All I want is you.” Dean’s eyes flash to black, smile curling the edges of his lips.

He gestures with his hand and the rugaru flies back, slamming into the back wall of the old freezer. His wife’s body makes a sickening thump as it falls to the ground. Paul is pinned there, unable to do much but squirm as Dean crouches over his dead wife, flipping her over and searching through her pockets.

“It’s a shame. She was kinda hot, your wife,” he purrs, finding the wallet in her coat pocket. He thumbs through it and pulls out all the cash in it, stuffing it in his pocket. “Should have fucked her when I had the chance—or, who knows, still might.”

Paul lets loose a slew of curses and threats, but Dean pays them no heed. He saunters into the freezer, taking his time in approaching the rugaru. He places the pseudo-blowtorch on the ground, then kneels and pulls a small knife from his boot. The demon takes a moment to admire the way it shines in the dim, buzzing fluorescent lights, then looks up at Paul.

“Where should we start?” he asks, voice quiet. He presses the blade against a bulging vein on Paul’s throat, digging in slowly. He twists, digs in the point, and pulls open the flesh, relishing the sight of blood spurting out and the howl of pain. “You’d be surprised how much your kind can go through before they die. Torching is the way you’re supposed to kill you guys, but there’s only so much _anyone_ can take before—“ It’s a surprise when Dean slices through the man’s shirt, straight into his belly, cutting only deep enough to break the skin and not the wall of muscle. “How long do you think you’d last? If I cut out your organs? Would you grow them back? Would you just keep on living? I’ve always wondered. Maybe we’ll find out tonight.”

Dean drags the knife up, cutting open the shirt and exposing the man’s chest, then letting the tool, the extension of himself, continue. Paul is begging with him, pleading, but he silences the moment the blade touches his bottom lip. A sharp movement and Dean pierces through it, skittering across his front teeth and digging into his gums. The man screams, ripping his mouth apart in the process. The sound racks Dean’s entire body, fills him with an exciting, pleasant chill that he hasn’t felt in weeks.

This is better than any booze, any drug, any _sex_. It’s everything he could have wanted, and it’s only just starting. All the thoughts that have been plaguing him disappear into the far corners of his mind, leaving nothing but this moment. Paul fights against the invisible bonds that hold him in place, but Dean is too focused to allow even the tiniest slip.

“You feed on flesh, right?” Dean asks. He doesn’t unsheathe his knife from the man’s lip, but rather pulls it straight out, splitting it in two and cutting his gums. Paul screams again, and Dean digs his nails into the flesh of his stomach, peeling at the seam he created with his knife. “I think we should work on removing your teeth first, then. What do you say?”

He slices up, working the tip of his blade between gum and tooth, ready to use it like a crowbar, before he’s finally aware of a strong hand on his shoulder and his name being snarled.

He’s whirled around, and Paul drops to the ground, sobbing and clutching his bleeding mouth and torso. Dean is staring straight into the face of divine justice and wrath, Castiel’s shoulders tense and eyes blazing with fury.

“This is not what we came here to do,” the angel hisses, hand a vice on the demon’s shoulder. “We were ordered to kill him—not torture him.”

Dean shoves him away, pushing hard against the injured arm. Stumbling back, Castiel hisses with pain and cradles it, though he never breaks eye contact.

“ _We_ weren’t ordered to do anything,” he snarls. “ _I_ was told to find and kill this rugaru—which I’m going to do. It doesn’t matter what happens in between as long as the job gets done. So back off.”

“Dean,” Castiel takes comes forward again, stepping so that they are just a hair’s width apart, eyes daring and mouth curling around every word, “I will not allow you to torture this man. You will gain nothing from it.”

“You gonna stop me, _Cas_?” The demon lowers his voice to a growl, and the nickname is spiteful on his tongue. Fire curdles deep in his stomach, hot and angry. “You can’t do jack shit to me. You’re fucking useless. I’m starting to wonder why I even keep you around.” His eyes flicker down to the angel’s lips, the bob of his Adam’s apple, the way his shirt fits to his body. He wonders for a moment what it’d be like to cut into him, to carve up an angel, to throw him against the wall and do whatever he’d like. “If you’re going to keep acting like this,” he goes on, raising his eyes back to match the other’s gaze, “I might have to—“

“Dean!”

The demon’s reaching out, ready to hit Castiel, to take out his frustration on the body in front of him. But instead, the angel is forcing him sideways and down, fire igniting in the space he’d just been standing in. He turns with a snarl to look at Paul, who’s wielding the torch in front of him as a weapon. His bottom lip flaps open with every motion like a macabre curtain and his teeth are stained red with blood. A flick of Dean’s wrist wrenches the weapon and puts it far out of Paul’s reach. It doesn’t matter, though, because the rugaru is pissed and fast, charging at Dean and tackling him to the ground.

There’s a definitive crunch of bone as the demon lands the wrong way on his wrist. Crying out, he squirms and strikes at the monster on top of him, trying to get away. There are flashes of white pain behind his eyes every time he moves his arm the wrong way, but the adrenaline keeps him fighting.

It’s not over until there’s a loud thud of metal striking the back of Paul’s head. He’s staggered, then falls on top of Dean with all of his weight, completely unconscious. Dean releases a soft sigh of relief and shoves the creature off of him, glaring at it as he slowly gets to his feet. The scrap metal Cas picked up clatters to the ground. Dean doesn’t even get a chance to argue before the angel is lighting the monster up, letting wave after wave of heat and flame engulf the rugaru. Dean nurses his wrist, lips pursed, and watches. Paul doesn’t even stir until it’s too late, and then there’s nothing left of him but the stink of sizzling flesh and ash.

“You’re hurt,” Castiel says matter-of-factly, turning to Dean. It’s obvious that his anger hasn’t dissipated, but it seems more controlled now, reigned in and hidden under a veil of concern. He doesn’t look like he’s ready to rip the demon’s head off.

But Dean, on the other hand…

“Yeah, thanks, I noticed,” he snaps. He cradles his hurt wrist—of course, it’s his right one—and takes a moment to examine it. “No thanks to you.” It’s just a sprain, he observes. No bones broken, just a lot of bruising. It will be healed in about a week, if he is lucky, but that means he’ll have to take easier hunts.

“I saved your life, Dean,” Cas replies sharply, hand gently feeling and testing out his shoulder. “You should be grateful.”

“Well, you know what, I wouldn’t have _needed_ you to save my life if you hadn’t fucking _stopped_ me. Son of a bitch wouldn’t even have killed me, anyway. I could have taken him.”

The angel rolls his eyes. “Yes, I’m sure you would have fared very well whilst on fire.”

They’re silent as they inspect their own injuries and do their best to ignore each other. Dean can’t remember the last time he was so angry. He’d been anticipating this for weeks. Hell, that _vampire_ was supposed to be his prize the other day, but he hadn’t even gotten to _kill_ the asshole. And then everything was lining up, giving him the perfect opportunity for a night of releasing his frustrations, reveling in the sensation of control and power…

But no. Because Castiel felt like being some kind of righteous prick.

“Your bosses wouldn’t have stopped me, you know. They hate things like him; they wouldn’t have cared,” Dean mutters bitterly. He stoops and pulls a small vial out of one of his jacket’s pockets to scoop up some of the ashes. “They’re the guys fucking paying for this in the first place.”

Castiel doesn’t say anything. His hands are on his hips, smearing blood on the white button-up. That irks Dean even more, that the guy won’t even answer him. But he’s done for the night—so fucking done—and is wondering if Crowley can take the guy early. If this keeps up, Dean will have done more than enough to earn his two mil.

Once he’s got the vial stopped up (which is a pain in the ass to do because his wrist is throbbing and starting to swell), he stands and grabs the pseudo-blowtorch from Castiel, stuffing it beneath his jacket where it creates a none-too-subtle bulge. He leaves then, not caring for the mess that’s left behind, and he’s actually a bit surprised when the angel follows him all the way back to the car.

They get in, and Dean takes a moment to feel the steering wheel, trying to decide if he’ll actually be able to drive back to the motel. It seems like it’s going to hurt, but he’ll have to deal. It’s not like he’s going to let Castiel drive—Castiel, whom he should kick out the car right now, throw him to the streets and the rats and the demons that will devour him in seconds with his powers tethered. He’s steaming, pissed beyond belief, but manages to bite his tongue on the drive back, and even has it reigned in until they’re in their room.

“You should let me look at your wrist. You need to compress and ice it,” Castiel says, beginning to unbutton his blood-splattered shirt. “It will need a splint, too. If you do not have one, perhaps we could—“

“Why?” The word slips from Dean’s mouth, bitter and simple in its angry confusion. He stands facing away from the angel, good hand running over his face before he turns to look at Castiel. “Why are you doing this?”

He’s hesitant in his answer, pursing his lips together, “I don’t understand.”

Groaning in frustration, Dean steps forward and closes the huge gap of space between them. “Why are you going along with this, huh? I can tell you’re pissed at me. So why don’t you run off?” he hisses, voice low. “And don’t give me any of that ‘I owe you’ crap. You and I both know that if I’d asked anyone else to do the things I asked you—bind their powers, stay in my sight—they would have laughed in my face, no matter what condition they were in. Or they’d at least have had the sense to have run off by now. So what’s the deal? Are you planning something, or are you just stupid?”

Castiel’s face twists with something. He doesn’t flinch away from Dean, does not back down even as the demon is nearly standing on top of him, and the hunter has to admire that. But his gaze drifts down, away, to the side. He can’t look Dean in the eye.

“I thought…” he starts. His lips press tightly together before he draws in a breath. “I thought that perhaps this was a sign from my Father. It seemed like an ironic twist of fate to be dying, with no hope of rescue, and then for you to not only find me, but care for me. I thought that perhaps this was my penance. That you were put in my way as a sign.” Blue eyes raise to match Dean’s, intense and calm. “I am beginning to believe I was wrong.”

Laughing is probably the most inappropriate reaction, but it doesn’t stop Dean from doing it anyway. He grins toothily, one brow raised as he looks Cas up and down.

“You thought I was a gift from _God_? I gotta tell you, that’s rich.” Suddenly, he’s grabbing onto the front of the angel’s shirt, throwing him back into the wall and pinning him there. Castiel gives a grunt of pain, his injured shoulder banging harshly against the wall. Dean leans in close, growling each word into the angel’s ear. “Don’t you ever mistake me for one of the good guys. You’re lucky I don’t carve you up right now. But if you _ever_ try to stop me again, I swear I will make you regret it. Got it?”

The angel’s face is stoic, devoid of emotion, and he doesn’t flinch under Dean’s words, ignores the pain that must be resonating from his shoulder.

“No, Dean. You won’t,” he whispers, matching the demon’s volume and tone.

Dean moves closer, uses his hips to pin the man to the wall. His hand comes up and he grabs the angel’s arm, thumb digging so sharply into the wound that he’s able to draw out a hiss from the creature. His injured hand, coated in Paul Owens’ dried blood, wraps around the angel’s throat, fingers threatening.

“Don’t be so sure about that.”

They stand like that for a long moment, hearts beating rapidly, and Dean finally pulls away, pushing harshly at the other man before turning and heading for the bag he left on his bed. Castiel remains for several moments, standing against the wall with blood seeping through his bandage. Dean doesn’t look back at him. He refuses to. Instead, he starts to undress, disassembles the makeshift blowtorch so they don’t accidentally go up in flames in the middle of the night, and changes so he’s just in his boxers. He goes to the bathroom to clean up, and when he comes back, Castiel is sitting on his bed, touching up a few stitches that must have torn when Dean shoved him.

 _Serves him right_ , he thinks. He falls into bed, lying facedown and smothering himself with a pillow. He thinks about turning the lights off on Cas, making him fix himself in the dark, but he’s hit with a wave of exhaustion that leaves him immobile.

It’s another quarter of an hour before the angel lies down himself. The light flicks off, and Dean sighs, thinking that the day is done. His temper’s cooled down quite a bit with the passage of time, and now he’s wondering if he just fucked everything up. Cas can easily leave now. Maybe Dean should stay up, keep an eye on him. Does he need to invest in some holy oil now? Fuck, that shit has got to be expensive and—

“For nearly half of my life, I was stationed at and watched over a mix town, only a few hundred miles from Lawrence. Pontiac, Illinois. It was my job to ensure that the citizens stayed in line and root out any hints of dissent.” Castiel’s voice is surprisingly quiet, but Dean hears every word with perfect clarity. He’s half-tempted to tell the guy to shut up, that he doesn’t want to hear this, but the truth is he does. He’s a curious bastard, he’ll admit. So he doesn’t say a word and pretends to be asleep.

“Of course, living in a town for so long, one becomes accustomed to and even friendly towards the denizens,” the angel goes on. “There were those of whom I grew fond, and my partner, Uriel, would often remark that they were much too familiar with me. He was right, of course, but I didn’t mind.

“Over the course of nearly a hundred and fifty years, I watched them. I saw children be born and then die of old age. I saw families being made and torn apart. And I grew… affectionate.” There’s a pause where Dean can only hear their breathing. “They were far different than my family, than those in Heaven. Where they were passionate, my family was cold. Where they were emotional, my family was rational. Every day, the differences between us were highlighted.

“The day you found me, a thief snuck into town. He’d somehow managed to get into one of our fortresses and steal several weapons. He was a danger to my entire family. We searched the city, and after finding nothing, were given the order to burn it to the ground. I refused to do so and was punished. While the garrison was busy with the razing, I snuck away.”

Throughout his story, Castiel’s voice is calm and even, not a trace of emotion in it. But the way it leaves off… Dean just can’t stand it. He turns his head, staring at Cas in the bed next to him, barely able to see the angel’s outline from the dim light that comes from the window.

“They’re demons. You’re an angel. I don’t see what the problem was,” he mutters.

Castiel shifts beneath the sheets. “I found in my many years of observation that demons often proved to possess more compassion and humanity than my own brothers and sisters. This town was ready to die to protect one of its kinsmen. He hid amongst them, but they refused to open their doors to us, and they refused to tell us where he was. They knew that standing against us was suicide, yet not a single demon told us where we could find the criminal. I could not kill them, not after they showed such a loyalty and familial protection that is profoundly lacking among my own people.”

“Heh. Demons having humanity, huh?” Dean chuckles. “That’s a new one.” And he never thought he’d hear an _angel_ say that. He knew demons. Demons were cruel, heartless, selfish. They weren’t loyal or compassionate or kind or—

“Is it such an outrageous statement, Dean?” Castiel asks, his tone shifting to something accusatory. “After all, you still carry your brother’s picture in your wallet despite him having died some time ago.”

Dean feels like he’s been hit by a truck. He stares into the darkness, struck by the comment as if he has no idea how it could have come into the conversation at all.

Cas takes advantage of the silence and adds, “Do not play me for a fool, Dean Winchester. Though you may wish to pretend that you are an uncaring, unfeeling abomination of the soul, it’s an obvious façade. I would appreciate if you would not insult my intelligence by pretending to be someone you are so obviously not.”

And Dean’s so taken aback that he can’t even think of a response. Not a sarcastic one, not an angry one, not a serious one. Nothing. He’s left speechless, and he’s pretty sure he can count on one hand how many times that’s happened. So the demon rolls over onto his side, facing away from Cas, and once he hears the angel fall into a pattern of soft snoring half an hour later, he allows himself to go to sleep, as well.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guilt's not a common emotion for Dean, but he's more than familiar with anger.

Dean wakes up with a crick in his back, feeling for all the world like he spent the night wrestling with a bear. He lays in silence for a moment, not having the energy to get up. He can hear the sound of the shower running, and it calms his nerves when he finally looks up and sees that the other bed is empty. Reaching blindly for the shitty alarm clock between the beds, he grabs hold of it and squints through the sleep in his eyes to read the time. Almost ten-thirty.

He wonders if he can risk calling Crowley and asking him to bump up their meeting to tonight instead of tomorrow. The job got done faster than expected (much _faster than expected_ , Dean thinks bitterly), and at this point, he’d rather get Cas the fuck out of here as soon as possible. He doesn’t need his whole holier-than-thou attitude or self-righteous bullshit. He doesn’t need the angel’s stupid attempts at making conversations or his life story or his way too creepy insight on Dean’s life. He needs the son of a bitch _gone_ , as soon as possible.

He decides finally to go ahead and do it, and pushes himself off the bed to stumble over to the counter. He definitely slept wrong, he thinks, and tries to stretch his back while he pulls his cell phone off the charger.

Marilyn doesn’t give him much shit when she answers and directs the line straight to Crowley. It doesn’t take much convincing, and by the time they’re set up to meet later that night, he can hear the water being turned off.

Dean and Castiel go about their business that morning without exchanging any pleasantries. They don’t even look at each other, moving like ghosts as they gather up their clothes and get ready for the day. Dean changes into his normal jeans and jacket (plus a makeshift splint for his wrist), but Cas ends up stuck with the same monkey suit, blood splotches covered up by his suit jacket.

They eat lunch in silence. The first four hours of the car ride are in silence (with the exception of Zeppelin rolling out of the speakers). They eat dinner in silence. And they spend the rest of the way home in silence.

Not a single word is spoken between them. No questions. No requests. The only time they speak is to tell their waitress what they’d like to eat. Castiel keeps to the seven dollar limit. Dean keeps his music to a dull roar. They don’t speak, and they don’t look at each other.

The tension from last night fades once they get closer to Lawrence, but it never truly disappears. Castiel is probably still reeling from the attempted torture and the threats, and Dean is still stinging from the mention of his brother. Needless to say, neither is in the mood to be in the other’s company, but at least they were able to pretend for almost an entire day that the other didn’t exist.

It’s ten at night when they pull into Dean’s driveway. Two hours until Dean has to meet Crowley, and they should probably even try to get there early. Dragging their shit back into the house and unpacking takes up a good half-hour, but then the demon has to finally break the silence.

“We’re going to a bar tonight,” Dean deadpans as he settles down on the couch. “I figure we’ll leave in about an hour.”

“We are?” the angel asks, but it’s a challenge and not a question in his voice.

“Yeah. And if you don’t like it, then tough,” he shoots back. They’ve managed to go all day without having an argument, and he really doesn’t want to get into one now, but if he has to…

“I would like to stay here if you are going to be gallivanting though bars.”

Dean turns around in his seat to look at where the angel is lingering in the kitchen, seemingly at a loss of what to do.

“Uh, no. You’re coming with. What part of ‘I don’t trust you’ do you not understand?”

Rolling his eyes, Cas crosses his arms defensively over his chest. Apparently he’s still got fire from last night— _more_ , it seems.

He snaps back, “I would think that you would realize after I didn’t leave following last night’s transgressions that I was here to stay.”

“Transgressions?” Dean barks out a humorless laugh. “Sorry, but I’m a fucking _demon_. I thought you guys were taught in grade school that demon equals bad. Torturing is kind of in the job description.”

“It is nowhere in your contracts that you should torture anyone, and I will not stand by and allow you to do so. I may be indebted to you, but that does not mean I will stand idly by as you hurt another without just cause.”

“Jesus _Christ_.” Dean gets to his feet. He turns around so he can face the angel, who’s staring him down with all the fury and righteousness he can muster with his wings clipped. Dean strides over, not stopping until he’s a breath away, staring him down. “Look. I don’t need your criticism,” he growls, voice low and threatening. “You and I, we’re two totally different animals with two totally different sets of rules. You do your thing, I do mine. If you don’t want to drink tonight, that’s fucking fine. But we’re _both_ going out. Got it?”

Castiel doesn’t waver, but he doesn’t say anything back, either, so Dean decides to take that as acceptance. He storms off, goes to his room, but once he’s inside, he doesn’t know why he’s there in the first place. It doesn’t matter, though, because he’s not going to wander awkwardly back into the living room looking like a jackass. He decides to lay on his bed, fumbling around the end table for something to occupy his time and coming up only with condoms and lube. He decides that he might take someone home tonight. Fuck them hard against the wall that he shares with Cas so that their moans will rattle in the angel’s ear. Talk about a nice “fuck you.”

Once he’s got that idea in his head, it’s hard to shake it off. He resolutely decides that that is what he’ll do, and let’s himself relish in some fantasies for a bit until he sees that it’s time to leave.

He goes out into the living room, checking that he’s got his keys, phone, and wallet tucked safely in his pockets. Castiel has changed into flannel and jeans and has taken up residence on the couch, watching some stupid documentary about Australia.

“Let’s go,” Dean says, walking straight to the door. He stops for just a moment at the threshold, looking expectantly back at the angel.

There’s a tense silence between them, filled only with a British guy’s commentary about how deadly and fucking terrifying the spiders in Australia are. But finally Castiel turns it off and comes to join Dean.

They get to Eddie’s Tavern with about twenty minutes to spare. It’s perfect, really, because it lets Dean get a good start on drinking. They sit in the back, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t notice how everyone there turned their eyes to stare at Cas. It’s to be expected, after all, but it still makes him feel like they’re all seeing through him—that now _Cas_ is gonna see through him and this whole plan is going to go up in smoke. But he knows how the angel comes off—can see the very human-looking energy that wafts off of him when his grace is shut down. He doesn’t need to worry, at least not right now.

They order their drinks, and Dean pretends not to notice the way Alyssa, the waitress, looks at the two of them weird. He can’t blame her, really, but it still sets the anxiety rolling. She brings them their drinks, and after a sip, the demon raises a brow at Cas.

“You sure you don’t want anything?” he asks, trying and failing to sound as normal as possible.

“Yes,” the angel frowns at him. “I am content with water.”

“But see, _alcohol_ makes you _happy_. Not just content.”

The look on Cas’ face is fucking hilarious. “I do not believe that is an appropriate way to look at drinking.”

“Hey, I don’t think drinking my liver to Hell is going to kill me—or you.”

Castiel looks prepared to make an argument, but stops when someone approaches their table. Dean glances up and is relieved (something he never thought he’d say) to see that it’s Crowley. The demon looks as impeccable as ever in his black suit, face set into permanent smugness. He’s a couple minutes early, but Dean doesn’t care. More time to drink and pick someone up.

“Dean Winchester. What a pleasure to see you here,” Crowley says, and the words are dripping with so much sarcasm that Dean is pretty sure that he could drown in it. The older demon turns his gaze, looking at Cas very interestedly. Dean knows the look in his eyes, though. It’s the way a curator looks over ancient artifacts or a jeweler inspects a diamond. The way a businessman studies a potential product. “And who do we have here? A human? That seems awfully dangerous, doesn’t it?”

“He’s got his tattoos,” Dean shrugs. He knows what they’re doing here. They’re playing, acting for the sake of keeping Castiel and the rest of the bar out of the know. Any curious ears will only know what Dean and Crowley want them to know, and no one will be any the wiser to their scheme. “This is…” He falters for a moment, knowing he needs a different name if he wants to keep up the ruse. “Jimmy Novak. Hunter-in-training.”

“I didn’t know you took in strays.”

Dean chuckles before finishing off his scotch. “Yeah, me neither.”

The older demon turns abruptly to face Castiel, still giving him that predatory, appraising eye. “The name’s Crowley. Welcome to Lawrence. I hope Dean isn’t too awful a host,” he purrs.

Castiel looks like he’s ready to expand on _just_ how terrible the experience has been but changes his mind. “I have had worse.”

The demon smirks, lips pursed and turned up. “Well, don’t let him run you ragged. I handle the Crossroads deals, though, so if you should ever need something… Well, I’m sure you know how to find me.”

Something about that appears to pique Castiel’s interest. “For all of Lawrence?”

Crowley laughs at that, shaking his head. “No, sweetie. I’m _King_ of the Crossroads. I handle _all_ of them.” Dean wonders if that’s what Cas’ “impressed” face looks like. “Well, I should let you two get back to it. Seemed like you were having a rather engaging conversation before I arrived. Dean, I’ll be seeing you later.”

And just like that, Crowley turns tail and leaves them alone again. Dean had been expecting a bit more, but he shrugs it off. The guy’s an expert – best not to question.

“I didn’t realize that you were friends with such influential people in your community,” Castiel says, still staring off after where Crowley lurks next to the bar.

“I definitely wouldn’t say we’re friends,” Dean says, taking his first sip of his beer. “Sometimes I come across stuff on my hunts—you know, rare ingredients or enchanted items.” _You_. “So, I sell them to him. The guy’s a douche, but he’ll at least give you a good deal.”

“He seemed quite friendly.” The angel tears his gaze away to look at Dean.

“Yeah, well, did I seem friendly when you first met me?”

It takes Cas a minute to assess the question, but he finally nods. “I suppose you did.”

“See? Can’t judge a book by its cover, or whatever.”

They return to their usual silence after that. Dean’s relieved for it, too. And the best part is that this is the least tense it’s been in awhile. Surely Cas hasn’t forgotten about their spats, but he seems more interested in analyzing demon society than thinking about how Dean likes to rip people apart for fun.

Apparently, it’s a night for introductions. Dean leaves at some point to take a piss (Castiel swears that he won’t move an inch), and when he returns, it’s like his vision has been painted red.

“What the hell is this bitch doing over here?”

The bitch in question turns on her heel to face Dean. She’d been leaned over the table, all up in Castiel’s space and probably flashing him her phone number written in her cleavage or something ridiculous like that. She’s completely unfazed when she sees him, giving her most arrogant smile.

Dean has standards for who he sleeps with, and Meg Masters is by no stretch of the imagination hard on the eyes. Long, curly black hair, heavy dark eyes, and a perfectly curvy body—if she weren’t _her_ , they probably would have fucked a long time ago. But now, the only thing he can see when he looks at her is pure, unadulterated rage and hatred with an intensity reserved for no one else.

“Well, hey, Dean,” she purrs, voice as silky and cocky as always. “Your friend Jimmy and I were just getting acquainted.”

“Get the fuck out. If I see your ass anywhere near us, I swear I’ll—“

She puts her hands up, feigning despair. “Now, now, Dean-O. No need to get upset. I didn’t mean to encroach on your property.” She turns to look at Castiel, running a hand unabashedly through his hair. “I’ll see you around.” Thankfully when she leaves, she leaves the building altogether.

“Well, you don’t seem too ‘Blushing Virgin’ this time,” Dean says, not meaning to put so much venom into his words.

“She was offering me advice on places to visit around here,” the angel replies, sounding a bit indignant.

“Yeah, like in the alley behind the dumpster?” he rolls his eyes. “Don’t let her fool you. Meg is a conniving, evil bitch, and whatever she wants from you, it isn’t good.”

“You don’t seem overly fond,” and Dean wants to punch the smugness right out of his mouth.

“Yeah, well, talk about bad fucking memories.” For as long as Dean can remember, Meg’s been a thorn in his side. Even as kids, she was always fucking around and messing shit up. Dean knows that if he ever got the opportunity—and could get away with it—he’d have her six feet under in a second. Wouldn’t even bother with the torture—it’d get him too dirty. “Just trust me on this one.”

“Of course, Dean,” and Dean chooses to ignore the copious amounts of scathing sarcasm in the angel’s voice.

Over the next two hours, Dean gets through two more scotches and three more bottles of beer. Castiel seems to content to sit with his water and watch how the crowd interacts. Dean thinks it’s probably because he’s never seen a drunk person in his life.

There aren’t many people there today, which is to be expected of a Sunday night. Mostly just the lonely looking for a good lay and the depressed looking to drink away their sorrows. Picking someone up would be easy, especially with the carefree slightly-more-than-a-buzz that Dean is feeling. He is taking someone home, and he is having sex—Castiel be damned.

He’s not sure when exactly he abandoned the angel at the table to go pick up the cute blonde at the bar (her mascara was blurred a bit beneath her eyes, and it was obvious she’d been crying). She is busty, wavy hair, short skirt; she is nearly perfect. So it isn’t hard for him to buy her a drink, strike up a conversation, pretend to care about the fact that she was dumped by her boyfriend that morning, and convince her to come home with him.

He is about to leave, nearly out the door when he realizes that Castiel is still sitting in the back of the bar. Sighing internally, he asks her to wait for just a moment while he goes and fetches the angel.

“Who is she?” Castiel asks when Dean comes to get him.

“She’s who I’m having sex with tonight, that’s who,” Dean grins.

Castiel seems unamused, and it’s a look so similar to one his brother always gave him that it strikes a nerve. “Is this really appropriate?”

“Who cares about appropriate? Now, come on. Just be cool and don’t… Don’t say anything, okay?”

Cas does as he’s told and doesn’t say a word. However, that might have served to disconcert Lily a bit. She looks them both over, her eyes finally coming to Dean, tinged with suspicion.

“Who is he?” she asks.

“My roommate. Long story. I just gotta take him home, too,” Dean waves it off. “Don’t worry about it.”

She seems less than ecstatic, especially since Cas is doing that creepy stare-into-your-soul thing, but a bit more persuasion gets everyone into the car and driving off.

Cas sits in the back of the Impala, and every so often Dean will look up in the rearview mirror and see the disapproving ocean-blue eyes staring back at him. But he shrugs it off, and some light, flirty conversation seems to make Lily forget Mr. Creepy in the back.

They stumble into the house ten minutes later, Dean already kissing her and gripping her waist. Cas wanders in after them, taking the job of Responsible Adult and locking the door behind him before going straight to his room.

Dean makes good on the decision he made earlier, and after some foreplay, he fucks Lily hard into the wall he shares with Cas’ bedroom. She moans wonderfully loud, begs for his cock, the whole nine yards, but Dean’s pretty sure that he’s getting more satisfaction from the idea of Castiel trying to cover his head up with pillow and his face flushed with embarrassment than the actual sex.

They do it once more on the bed, and at some point during the night, Lily stumbles out and leaves. Dean is grateful to avoid the awkward morning after talk.

But, still, there _is_ the morning after talk with Castiel.

Dean is in pretty high spirits when he comes out for breakfast, stomach rumbling with the reminder that their dinner had been rather early in the day yesterday. He sets the oven to 350, remembering the frozen pizza in the freezer, and sits at the kitchen table with his laptop to start typing up his report for Travis so that he can receive his bounty. It’s nearly noon, but Dean can’t hear anyone moving around the house. He’s not worried, though. After all, if Castiel was ever going to leave, it would have been Saturday night.

Nearly an hour later, Dean pulls the pizza out of the oven. He lets it cool while he goes to bang on Castiel’s door.

“Up and at ‘em! Lunch is ready!” he shouts. A few seconds pass, but then he can hear movement, and soon there’s a disheveled, irritated angel opening the door, dressed in oversized sweatpants and a tee-shirt. Dean grins. “Sleep well?”

“No,” Cas deadpans. “You and that woman were certainly of no help.”

The demon shrugs and turns back to go to the kitchen, Castiel reluctantly following. As Dean cuts up the pizza, he can feel the stare on the back of his neck.

“Was last night truly necessary?”

“Sure as hell was,” Dean chuckles. “I haven’t gotten laid in awhile. She wasn’t as loud as I was hoping, though… What do you think? Scale of one to ten, how loud were we?”

He turns back to Cas with two plates of pizza. The angel seats himself at the small table and stares at Dean with obvious unhappiness.

“An eight,” he snaps, and Dean lets out a laugh.

“See?” he says, sitting down. “I told you she wasn’t loud enough.”

The angel glares at his pizza for a few seconds, refusing to touch it. “It was very rude,” he mutters.

“Rude? Hey, if you’d wanted to take that girl home the other night, I would have been cool with it. Or you could have joined in if you had wanted—“

“No, Dean. That’s not what I meant,” Castiel growls. “What I mean is that it was rude to bring someone here at all and then be so purposefully loud for your own amusement. You should show me some respect.” He picks up his slice of pizza and begins eating, still not looking at Dean.

The demon laughs again and shakes his head. “Uh, I’m _sorry_ , but I thought that this was _my_ house and that I saved your ass from dying, so I’m allowed to do whatever I damn want.”

“You could at least be hospitable.”

“Lily thought I was _plenty_ hospitable.” Castiel gives a sound of disgust, nearly rolling his eyes. He continues to eat, obviously not thrilled to carry on the conversation, so Dean adds, “You know, Cas, you should try to lighten up. It’d do you a world of good.”

Castiel continues eating.

A moment passes, and Dean says, “So, you think I can leave you here alone for a bit? I need to run some errands. It’d be for a couple of hours.”

Looking up, the angel stares at him quizzically. “You’re trusting me to stay here by myself?”

“Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”

Cas shakes his head. “Of course not. I’m merely surprised. It hasn’t even been a week since we’ve met, and with your previous insistence that I stay within eyeshot…”

“Well,” shrugs Dean, “let’s call it a test run.” He doesn’t seem completely convinced, but Castiel concedes. Once the hunter finishes his half of the pizza, he gets up and starts pulling on the jacket draped over the back of his chair. “Use the day to rest up. Your shoulder is looking a bit worse for wear, and you could use the R and R. Just don’t break the TV, okay? I’ll pick up your suit while I’m out, too.”

“Thank you,” Cas says as Dean starts out the door.

“Christ,” he mumbles, “and stop with the ‘thank you’s!”

\+ + +

The first stop is Crowley’s. Dean’s skin feels like it’s itching the entire drive, and it’s not the good, anticipatory, ready-to-cut-someone-open itch. It’s weird and uncomfortable, and it makes him anxious. He wonders what it is, but it’s hard to pinpoint it, especially when it continues to get worse and worse the closer he gets to the estate. If he didn’t know any better, he would have sworn that the guy had put some kind of demon wards on the place.

He barely notices Marilyn’s glares and heads straight to Crowley’s office. The King of the Crossroads is seated comfortably at his desk, usual glass of Glencraig just within reach. He’s pouring over some documents and barely looks up when Dean enters.

“Here to seal the deal, are we?” he asks, signing a few pieces of paper and tucking them away.

“Yeah. Let’s just get it over with.”

“No need to be pushy.” The demon picks a stack of paper from his desk and turns it toward Dean. “It says that you will exchange the angel in your care for two-million dollars. He’ll be in near perfect shape, you won’t renege, et cetera. It also says that if you do make an attempt to weasel your way out of this, you are required to return the money, plus two-and-a-half percent interest, in cash, within three days of doing so, or I take possession of all your belongings—house, car, the works.”

Appalled, Dean makes a face. “Dude, you’ve gotta be kidding me. I have to give you all my stuff?”

“ _Only_ if you go back on our deal and do not repay me,” he corrects. “But you have no reason to do that, do you?”

The hunter licks his lips and steps forward. “Of course not.”

He signs the contract, and the itching and anxiety have never been so bad.

“Wonderful. I will see you on the twenty-eighth then.”

The rest of the day doesn’t pass… Well, it doesn’t pass easily. Dean meets up with Travis just a half-hour out of town to go over the logistics end of the hunt. It’s not the most exciting, but Dean’s going to have five-hundred dollars in his pocket once this goes through.

He goes to the grocery store afterward to restock the beer and frozen dinners, but somehow ends up in the fresh meat section. On a whim, he grabs eggs and bacon, then heads down the baking aisle to get pancake mix and bacon, too. If Castiel’s going to complain about there being no real food in the house, then he can make his own damn breakfast (but if he doesn’t know how to operate the stove, then Dean guesses he’ll have to help him). It makes him feel a little better, but the rock in his stomach is still decidedly there.

He grabs the dry-cleaning on the way home, and when he comes in with his arms laden with plastic bags, Castiel quickly rises from his spot on the couch.

“Do you require assistance?” he asks, coming forward.

“Just take your clothes. Pretty sure you’ll break yourself again if you try to carry any of these.”

The angel graciously unhooks the hangers from Dean’s straining fingers, but also grabs some of the bags from where they strain Dean’s injured wrist. The demon tries to protest, but it’s half-hearted, and Castiel drops off the bags on the counter before disappearing into his room. Halfway through getting everything put away, he hears him come back out and join him in the kitchen.

“I, uh… I got us some breakfast food for tomorrow. We don’t have a case, so I figured it wouldn’t hurt to take some time to make ourselves something.”

“I thought you couldn’t cook?”

“Just because I _don’t_ doesn’t mean I _can’t_.” Dean loads the Jack Daniels into the fridge one bottle at a time, pausing after a moment. “I used to cook all the time, actually. Had to. Sometimes Dad would go on a hunt that would last longer than he thought it would. I had to make sure Sammy got fed, and you can only live off Twinkies for so long. I’m no chef, but I can still cook a decent meal.”

Dean catches the angel staring when he looks up, but neither says anything about it. _What happened to keeping this to a business relationship?_ , asks a bitter voice in his head. But it’s just one story. It fit with the moment. But Dean quickly realizes that the weight that he’s been dragging around all day is guilt. He swallows hard and takes the last bottle out of the container for himself, deciding he needs it now rather than later.

_He doesn’t care about your life story, and you don’t care about his_.

Popping the top off the bottle, he takes a long drink before turning back to Castiel. “If you need me, I’ll be in my room.” He grabs the laptop off the kitchen table, tucks it under his arm, and when the door closes behind him, he thinks he can still feel the angel’s gaze on him.

\+ + +

Castiel doesn’t need him, or at least doesn’t come to Dean’s room. After a few hours, the hunter can’t stay cooped up anymore and has to come out. Castiel is sitting on the couch, a little more slouched than Dean’s used to seeing him, with his wounded arm resting comfortably on the armrest. The demon’s attention is immediately brought to the television and the sight brings a grin to his face.

“You’re watching Thundercats? Shit, I didn’t even know they played that anymore.”

Starting, the angel looks up at Dean and nods. “I was going through the channels, and it seemed interesting.”

Taking a seat next to him, the demon asks, “What? Have you never seen it before?”

“No. Television is a luxury that we do not have in Heaven; at least, not those who were in my standing.”

“Huh.” Green eyes flicker to the screen, where Lion-O and Mumm-Ra are having a confrontation. “God, Sammy used to love this show. When we were little, we’d watch it for hours. They’d have marathons sometimes. Sam had a _total_ crush on Cheetara,” he chuckles.

They watch in silence through two episodes, before it changes to some other cartoon that Dean’s never seen. He stands up and stretches, checks the time and sees they should probably eat dinner. Dean turns on the stove and starts making mac and cheese, quickly deciding that he might as well heat up some hot dogs and throw them in there, too. Castiel stays in the living room for a few minutes, but eventually wanders into the kitchen.

He sits at the small table and asks, “What happened to your brother?”

“We’re not talking about that.”

“Then would you tell me more stories?”

“No.”

But the thing is, he can’t help but keep doing it.

Over the course of the next week, something always happens that reminds Dean of his family, and he keeps blurting it out. He tells Cas about how his mom used to bake the best apple pie. He tells him about how his dad taught him to shoot a gun when he was nine. He tells him about how Sam became a soccer star at one of the middle schools they ended up going to, even won a trophy.

He doesn’t tell him any of the bad stuff. But he’s not supposed to be telling him anything at all.

Castiel shares his own stories, as well. He tells Dean about how during his first training class when he was twenty-nine, he got startled, and one of his wings slammed the instructor into the wall and broke his arm. His peers thought he was pretty awesome after that, since the guy was kind of a dick. He tells Dean about his friend Uriel, who is widely considered the funniest angel in the garrison.

(“And then… Then he said, ‘You breed with the mouth of a goat’,” Castiel manages to say between giggles, a huge smile on his face. When he sees that Dean doesn’t find it as funny as he does, he coughs, sobers a bit, and adds, “It’s funnier in Enochian.”)

He tells Dean about how he used to spend any free time or vacation he received (apparently, soldiers get three months off for every ten years they spend working, and Dean can’t help but marvel at what a rip-off that is) he would spend his time reading and traveling the world.

(“I was able to meet President Michael on my last journey seven years ago. It was very unnerving.”)

Dean takes him out to the grocery store so they can pick out food together. He smirks at the angel’s suit and tan trench coat, which is a bit big on him (Cas seems to have lost some weight since when they first met). He even takes the guy to see a movie, since he’s never been.

Dean knows he needs to be shutting this down, because as much as he hates to admit it, he’s kind of starting to like the guy. Sure, he can have a stick up his ass and be overly righteous, but he’s not awful to be around. He’s good company, and Dean feels comfortable around him.

And that’s dangerous.

Each day, after spending the entirety of it beating himself up after some too-personal exchange, Dean goes to the bar. He finds a demon, some hot young thing with a dirty mouth and a great ass, and brings them home to fuck. They’re always loud, their voices ringing through the house, certainly ringing in Castiel’s ears. And in the morning, when the night’s fuck-buddy is gone, the angel looks at Dean with disapproval and bags under his eyes, but no longer voices his protest.

On night fifteen, Dean comes home from a night at the bar with a girl. She’s giggling while he whispers something in her ear, unlocking the door one-handedly with an expert’s finesse. As he leads her in, lips pressed against her neck, she makes a small sound of surprise and freezes. Dean is about to make a comment, ask her if she likes that, when he can hear it. Quiet little grunts and moans, the slick sound that comes with kissing too hard…

He looks up, and it takes a minute to process before he’s sent into a rage.

Castiel has a girl in his arms, her body pressed against the wall, his fingers tangled in her long dark hair. She has a hand in his hair, too, pulling at it, one gripping his hip beneath the tan trench coat. When Dean realizes who it is, he doesn’t know if he could get any angrier.

“Get off,” he snarls. He breaks away from his date roughly, storming up to the two who are still semi-entwined against the wall when they look up. Cas seems confused, and Meg, smug. Dean grabs Castiel by the back of his trench, forcing him back and away from the demon. The hunter forces himself between them, lip curled in disgust as he faces the woman. “Get the fuck out of my house.”

“Calm down, Dean. Me and Jimmy here were just having some fun,” she says, words rolling easily off her tongue. She looks past him to the angel to raise a suggestive eyebrow, and Dean moves to block her vision.

“Dean—“ Cas tries to interject.

“Shut up,” Dean doesn’t take his eyes off of Meg. He points to the door, jaw hurting from how hard he’s clenching it. “I said get out.”

The other demon shrugs, easily pushing herself off the wall and walking around him. “Come on, kid,” she says, reaching out to grab Cas’ arm. “We can go to my place.”

“Fuck no,” Dean snaps and smacks her hand away harshly. He stands between them again and gives Meg a hard shove on her shoulders to send her back a few steps. “Get out. He’s staying here.”

For a moment, she looks surprised, and it’s definitely a change of attitude for her. But she covers it up quickly with her usual arrogance and smile.

Meg chirps, “You know, Dean, Jimmy’s a big boy. I think he can decide where he goes.”

“He’s not going anywhere with you.”

“Dean—“

“I said to stay out of it.” He doesn’t bother looking back at the angel, not wanting to risk giving Meg a chance to get the jump on him. There’s a hand at his shoulder and he shrugs it off roughly. “Meg, this is your last chance, or I’ll fucking kill you where stand. You got that?”

He thinks he sees a flash of concern in her eyes, maybe fear, but it’s brief and gone in an instant. “Fine, then. Whatever. Sorry for stealing your boyfriend. Jimmy, I’ll see you around.”

She turns and saunters off, brushing past the girl still standing in the open doorway. The girl looks between Dean and Meg, and after a look from him, follows suit and leaves, shutting the door behind her.

“Dean,” Castiel huffs. The demon turns around to face him, seeing the obvious anger on the man’s face. “What do you think—“

“Why did you do that?” he snaps out.

“What?”

“Why the fuck were you kissing Meg?”

The angel rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “I don’t see why you should care.”

“Just answer the fucking question.”

Cas sighs and rolls his shoulders. “You were the one who continued to tell me that I should ‘get laid’, and I’ve never touched another person intimately. Meg is attractive and a willing participant. Besides, you were the one who said I could bring someone here, and who has brought a different person home every single night for the past eight nights.”

He scoffs in response, shoulders tensing as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Well, I changed my mind. You’re not allowed to go around just kissing people, especially not that bitch. I told you, she’s bad news!”

“Dean,” Cas begs exasperatedly, “I don’t understand why you’re—“

“My word’s final.” Dean moves in, imposing himself. He stands close to the angel, eyes catching the red lipstick smeared on the man’s lips and neck, and it just serves to fuel his fire. He lowers his voice and says the next words slowly. “You’re not fucking anybody, you’re not touching anybody, and you’re not kissing anybody. Not while you’re here. Got it?”

The angel’s mouth opens just slightly, and his head cocks to the side, confusion written all over his face. He takes a step back and licks his lips, looking to the side for a moment. When he walks off to his room, he doesn’t say anything, and he closes the door softly behind him.

Dean’s not so quiet, though. He kicks the coffee table, ignoring the sharp pain in his toes as it tumbles a few feet across the living room. He storms off to his bedroom, his own door sounding loudly through the house, rattling in the frame. He sheds his clothes quickly and climbs into bed.

Laying in silence, he tries to figure out why he’s so angry about this whole thing. He tells himself it’s because of Meg. He just really despises that woman, can’t think of anyone in the world he hates more. He tries to convince himself that that’s it, but he knows it’s not. Something is in the back of his mind, telling him that he’s very, very wrong. But no matter how hard he tries, he can’t figure it out. It takes two hours of rolling around in bed for him to finally fall asleep, anger still simmering in the back of his head, mingling with guilt.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean Winchester likes to think he never gets in over his head, but it actually happens a lot more often than he believes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize that this update came a bit late! The chapter got a bit out of hand, and I didn't want to break it up, so it's pretty lengthy. I hope you enjoy!

The next day, surprisingly, is not very tense. When Dean wakes up, Castiel is in the kitchen, beginning to make breakfast. The angel asks how many eggs he would like, and Dean says two. After snatching the newspaper from the front stoop, the demon sits with it at the dining table and begins to read. It’s business as usual, and no one talks about what happened last night.

When Dean goes out that night, he’s about to ask a wiry guy named Chris if he’d like to get out of here, but he can’t bring himself to do it. After last night, the thought of sex is nearly distasteful, and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t find that as distressful as he should.

He still can’t figure out why it made him so angry. It’s a full day later, and just the thought gets him riled up. When he first walked into the bar, he saw a girl with long dark hair and nearly marched over and told her to get out. It turned out not to be Meg, but his temper didn’t cool until nearly a half-hour later.

He thought some beers would loosen him up, but that has not been the case. Instead, it just leads to him brooding and thinking about Meg and Cas and Meg _and_ Cas. It makes him want to throw up.

When he comes home that night and Castiel’s nowhere to be seen (locked in his room, Dean guesses, with a pillow over his head), he walks over to the door and gives it a hard knock.

“Hey, Cas. It’s only twelve-thirty,” he says after clearing his throat. “Wanna watch a movie or something?”

The angel slowly comes out of his room, dressed in his pajamas, obviously confused when he sees no one else around.

“You didn’t bring anyone home,” he observes suspiciously, gaze falling behind Dean to look at the rest of the house.

“Uh, yeah. Didn’t really feel like it,” he shrugs, uncomfortable. “If you’re sleeping, you can keep doing that or whatever. I was just going to put on an episode of _Star Trek_ or something.”

Castiel’s quiet, but he steps out of his room and closer to Dean.

“What’s that?”

Dean grins. “Just wait. You’re gonna love it!”

They watch the first two episodes of _The Original Series_ that night, and with not much to do the next day, they decide to marathon it. It’s the most easy-going Dean’s felt in a long time, and they get through half the season before Castiel complains of a headache.

“Probably from watching too much TV,” Dean muses. “I’ll get you some ibuprofen.”

When he comes back (with a glass of water, too), Castiel thanks him and takes the pills quickly. They sit quietly as Castiel finishes his cup, and once he’s done, a silence takes over. Dean licks his lips, wanting to ask something, but instead takes the glass and puts it in the kitchen sink.

“By the way, how’s your arm feeling?” he asks when he comes back.

Castiel tests it, rolling his shoulder and raising his arm as high as he can. “Much better. I’ve nearly regained my entire range of motion,” he nods. “Many of the cuts have healed, too, and the bruising’s gone from most of my body.”

A muscle in Dean’s face twitches as he forces a smile. “Well, looks like you’ll be healed up a lot faster than we thought.”

Shaking his head, the angel says, “While I can move my arm much better now, I don’t think I will be capable of any heavy-lifting for about two weeks.”

Dean’s shoulders relax (when had they tensed up?), and he nods with what hopefully looks like sympathy.

“Oh, okay… So, uh… Where are you going to go? Once you’re all healed up?” He doesn’t know why he asks it. It’s a stupid question, and there’s nothing he can get out of it. After all, Castiel doesn’t _actually_ get to leave. Castiel gets to go to Crowley, who will do who knows what with him. He feels the heavy stone of guilt settling in his stomach again.

“I’m not sure,” Cas replies. He rubs his hands together in his lap and looks away for a moment. “I can’t go back to Heaven, though I might like to.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “You _want_ to go back to that shitfest?”

“It’s my home, Dean. It’s been my home for hundreds of years. Though it may not operate in a way that I think is… _proper_ or in alignment with our original morals, it is still my home, and they are still my family.”

Dean purses his lips and gives a slight nod. Maybe he can relate to that. Family is family, right? “So, then where?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe I could…” He looks up at Dean, staring intently for a moment. His mouth is open slightly, a question at his lips, but he swallows it down. “I could find my own place to stay, somewhere far enough from Heaven that they won’t care to search for me. However, I still haven’t fully repaid you yet.”

Shrugging, Dean says, “I’m sure you’ll be more than out of debt by the time you leave.”

As Cas bobs his head in understanding, Dean’s phone rings.

“Shit, give me a second.” He gets up and walks toward his bedroom, holding the phone up to his ear. After a few minutes, he stuffs the device back in his pocket and returns to Castiel. “So, how do you feel about finally getting your hands on a weapon?”

It’s a simple bounty-hunting case. Geoffrey Michaels, confirmed werewolf, has been terrorizing a town about an hour south of Clarksville, Tennessee, killing and turning quite a few citizens. The local police have managed to kill some of the more unlucky victims, but there’s still a half-dozen out there, not including Michaels himself. The chief of police, a demon named Liana Pearson, is a good acquaintance of Dean, especially after he helped her track down a crocotta a few years back, and since she’s been unable to capture him, she’s called on Dean for some help.

The goalis to find Michaels and his newly formed pack, and then kill everyone. There’s a payment of two-hundred dollars per werewolf. If he and Cas play their cards right, they could get over a thousand dollars for this gig, more than enough to keep them fed and their weapons stocked until Castiel… _leaves_.

They use the remainder of the evening to pack up the Impala, making sure to bring all their silver bullets and two guns. Once they’ve got a bag of clothes thrown in there, Dean asks the angel if he’s ever shot anything before.

“No,” the man replies. “I’ve rarely seen angels use anything other than swords, like the one you took from me. For long-range, we have the assistance of our powers to bring a foe closer or to impede his movements.”

“Well, you up for some late-night shooting lessons?”

As a student, Cas is very eager to learn. He studies every detail of what Dean does and tries to copy it exactly. He listens, he pays attention, and he asks questions when he needs to.

But as an actual shooter? Well… There’s a lot to be desired.

After an hour has passed and the Castiel shoots the side of the neighbor’s house for the third time (they’re luckily not home), the two decide to call it a night.

They wake up the next morning for a quick breakfast (Castiel doesn’t want the food to waste while they’re gone), but before they leave, Dean stops the angel.

“Here,” he says. He hands him the angel blade he took over half a month ago, hilt first. “Can that thing kill werewolves?”

Cas takes it carefully into his hands, examining it for a moment before looking back up at the hunter. “Yes, it should.”

“Good. I figure you’ll be less of a hazard using that thing than a gun. Just try not to hurt your shoulder when you’re fighting.”

Dean knows that thanks are coming, so he walks away as fast as he can, not wanting to hear it.

It only takes a couple hours to get to their destination, and Dean calls Liana that they’re close. When the Impala rolls up to the police station, Sheriff Pearson is already waiting for him out in the lobby.

“Thought you’d never get here,” she says, looking him and Castiel over. “Who’s he?”

“Oh,” Dean turns to look at the angel for a moment. “That’s Jimmy Novak. I’m training him to be a hunter.”

“A human?”

Dean shrugs. “He’s the one paying me. Now, come on. Tell me what you know about Michaels.

The werewolves are probably located somewhere on the North Side, but so far, the police have been unable to pinpoint exactly _where_ in the district they are. The full moon is in two days, and they need to catch Michaels and his new gang before everything goes to shit. The sheriff lets Dean and Cas have a room to themselves to look over the case files, evidence, and research, and they get to work.

It’s boring and tedious, but the two work surprisingly well together. When Castiel thinks he’s found something, he leans over to push his findings towards Dean and explain them. Dean nods his understanding, and the two continue to talk out their ideas. Sometimes the angel leaves, and when he returns, he has more boxes of files, and they eventually get to the point where they can barely see each other through the organized chaos.

After three hours and some aching backs, Cas speaks up again.

“Dean,” he says. He stands and rounds the table to be next to the demon’s side and spread out a few documents before him. “I think I’ve narrowed down where we can find Geoffrey Michaels.” He points to a document, a photo from some murders a few years back. “There was a serial murder six years ago in this town, with seven victims. Their bodies, hearts missing from their chests, were found, mutilated, in boxes beneath the basement stairs at the Rolling Hills Apartment Complex located near this section of the forty-one bypass. _Here_ , there is a symbol carved into the baseboard.”

Dean has to squint his eyes, but damn, there it is. Barely visible, but there’s definitely something occult-like carved into the molding in the corner of the molding.

“I have seen this symbol before in my readings. It’s the symbol for the Almis, a notorious pack of werewolves that was supposed to have been eradicated ten years ago. The werewolf responsible for these killings was supposedly the last of the Almis.”

“But you don’t think so?”

“No,” Castiel shakes his head. He pulls a photo from across the table over to them. It’s of one of the most recent victims. “See this?” He points to a mark on the man’s face. “It’s a bit blurred, but I am most certain that it is the same symbol as that of the Almis, probably resulting from being struck by someone wearing a signet ring.”

Dean’s more than impressed. He looks up at Cas, who has a furious intensity in his gaze and the tautness of his shoulders. The guy’s got an incredible eye for detail, and Dean’s not sure he himself could have found that.

“But the police _did_ kill a werewolf at the end of that case. You saying he wasn’t the last one?”

“Correct. In fact, I would venture to guess that the killer at the time was also Geoffrey Michaels. I think he was trying to grow his pack again, which is what I believe he’s doing now. The man they killed six years ago was most likely one that Michaels had already turned, and since he was a werewolf, the police assumed they’d killed the murderer.”

After taking a moment to think it over, Dean scratches his neck and bobs his head in agreement. “I think that’s a really good theory, but how does that help us figure out where he is?”

“We need to narrow the search down to places where a group of people could hide. This part of the North Side has an exorbitant amount of abandoned factories . I believe a sweep of these five streets would expose their location.”

Dean nods appreciatively and grins when he returns his gaze to Cas. “Nice work,” he says clapping the guy on the shoulder. “Let’s get to it, then.”

The angel appears pleased with himself for a moment, but it’s quickly taken over by confusion. “Shouldn’t we inform the Sheriff?”

“Pfft,” Dean rolls his eyes. “If you send in the police, those guys are going to hightail it out of there in no time. We need to go by ourselves and at least find the building first.”

“Okay, I understand,” Cas concedes. “It will be dark soon. We should leave as soon as possible.”

“Agreed.”

They’re able to get out by saying they want to do some in-the-field investigations themselves. Sheriff Pearson just warns them not to give themselves away before sending them off.

As they walk towards the North Side, Dean’s phone beeps with a new text message from Crowley (or, rather, his assistant).

          “Crowley requests that when the product is delivered on the 28th, it is brought to the basement level, room 4A. - Marilyn Ames”

That puts a quick damper on Dean’s mood. He looks up at Castiel, who is curiously eyeing him, but otherwise appears satisfied and even happy. Dean’s reminded of what they’ve been doing these past few days, and he’s filled with guilt.

Try as he might, he can’t keep up the whole Tough Heartless Demon thing, not with Cas. He gets angry and irritated and upset, and he can’t explain why most of the time, but as much as he hates to admit it, having the angel around has been really awesome. Having someone else in the house again, to not be left with the echoing silence of a home filled with the ghost of a dead family, to be able to share things with someone, to have a companion. It’s been nice—more than that.

And that’s not all of it. Castiel’s not just good company; Dean’s grown overly fond of him, and not in a “he would make a great slave or pet” way that would let him buy him off Crowley. Dean likes him as a person, and the idea of selling him off makes the demon feel sick to his stomach. Maybe it’s just a temporary infatuation of company, but Dean doesn’t think so. Because when he looks over and sees Cas smiling and proud of himself, being a proper hunter and fitting so neatly into the hole in Dean’s world that he never knew was there, Dean can’t fathom sending him off.

But he doesn’t have a choice. He’s already signed the contract. He’s already made the deal. It’s either Castiel or all of Dean’s possessions—not just his possessions, but the last remnants of his family. His mother, his father, his brother—if he lost it all, there’d be nothing left of them but his own memories.

Not to mention he’s a demon, and this is a motherfucking _angel_ he’s talking about. Angels are oppressive, emotionless, compassionless, righteous. They are Heaven’s hammers, used to scare everyone else into subservience and compliance. If Dean sells Castiel, it’s no different than what the angels do to demons, humans, and everyone else on a regular basis.

But he’s already grown attached. He’s already grown fond. But Cas… he hasn’t, right? Castiel is just here to heal. He only does what he does because he feels he owes Dean or that “God” put Dean here for him or whatever. Castiel doesn’t care about him. He just cares about making things even. What could he possibly like about Dean to begin with?

“Did you get another case?” the angel asks.

“Nothing,” he mutters and stuffs the phone back in his pocket.

The two spend two hours carefully combing fifteen blocks. Castiel takes note of particularly suspicious buildings for them to investigate later. They’re on their third pass-through when Cas stops them and points to an abandoned storage warehouse across the street.

“What?” Dean asks.

“The side door.” Without another word, the angel heads off towards it, taking the rusty metal stairs running along the perimeter to one of the entrances. He waits for Dean to catch up, then points the symbol lightly etched into the doorknob.

“Son of a bitch.” The demon does a double-take, looking back to where they’d been standing a few seconds ago, a street over and at least a hundred feet away. “How the hell did you see that?”

“Even with my powers repressed, my eyesight is much more acute than yours,” the angel replies. Dean’s impressed, but he remembers not to show it. “Should we investigate or return to the station to inform them of our discovery?”

“Liana will kick my ass if we send her out here and no one’s around. Besides, we get money for each one that _we_ kill, not whoever they kill. I say we go in.”

Dean’s about to try to open the door, but Cas stops him.

“I don’t think this is a good idea. If this _is_ their hideout, there could be six werewolves inside, possibly more. I don’t think we’re well-equipped enough to—“

“No, we’re not doing this,” Dean cuts him off. “Look, you’ve got your sword, and I’ve got my gun. I think we can take them on if they’re in there, especially if we get the jump on them. Now, come on.”

It takes only a few seconds to pick the lock on the door. But three steps in and Dean finds himself forced to a halt.

“Aw, shit!” he groans quietly. There’s a devil’s trap beneath his feet, and he feels like a moron for walking right into it. He turns back to the angel, whispering beseechingly, “Think you could do something about this?”

He swears that he catches a hint of smugness on Castiel’s face as the guy uses his foot to scuff at the paint on the floor. Once it’s been sufficiently broken, Dean takes a step out, shuddering as the mojo rolls off of him. He doesn’t bother with a thanks, but draws his gun and begins quietly into the warehouse.

They’re on a catwalk overlooking the whole floor. There are a dozen shipping containers, abandoned and rusting in their spots. They can hear distantly shuffling feet and murmuring voices, but the sources are unknown.

Castiel opens his mouth to ask something, but he’s stopped short by a gesture from Dean. The demon waves his hand forward and begins sneaking down toward stairs that lead down to the lower level. They stop halfway down when the sound of slamming metal fills the air. The two rush back up and hide against the wall to the watchmen’s tower. Another slam, a creak, and Dean cranes his neck to see down to the floor below.

The doors to one of the containers opens, and a man and a woman step out, having a quiet conversation. Dean points them out to Castiel, and the angel nods.

“Do you think that’s them?” he asks quietly.

“Yes. That is Michaels,” Cas nods.

Dean glances back to the strangers, squinting to try and see the man’s face better. “Are you sure?”

“He has the same appearance as the man in the pictures. It is definitely him.”

Nodding, the hunter pulls the gun from the back of his jeans and checks to see that it’s loaded. “Well, then, guess it’s time for us to get to work.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas hisses, grabbing the man’s shoulder. “We should go get the police. We have no idea how many of them there are. This could very well be suicide.”

He rolls his eyes and shrugs off the angel’s hand. “There’s only supposed to be six of them. We can take them.”

“I think you’re being a bit overconfident.”

“Well, sorry that I’d actually like to get paid and not have to—“

“ _Dean_!”

 Before he knows it, the angel grabs him by the front of his shirt and throws him across the catwalk, far behind Castiel and the stairs where Michaels and the woman are storming up. Dean barks at Cas, and they both ready their weapons.

“Hey!” Dean snaps as the woman looks like she’s about to attack Cas. “I’ve got silver bullets loaded in this baby. I suggest you back the fuck up.”

The two werewolves freeze, staring past the angel to the demon. They exchange glances, then slowly put their hands in the air.

“What do you want?” Michaels growls—and, yes, Dean can now definitely tell that this is the guy they’re looking for. Just as Cas predicted, he even has a huge signet ring on his right hand.

Dean huffs a laugh and steadies his aim on the head werewolf. “I think you know.”

The werewolf smirks, and his chest bubbles with light chuckles. “Do you think you can take all of us?”

“Let’s see, six of you, and two of us?” the demon quips back. “I think all bets are on us, honestly.”

“Six?” Michaels asks, and he’s full out grinning now. “You’ve got your numbers _way_ wrong, don’t you?”

He whistles low, and the sound echoes around the empty warehouse. One by one, the storage containers open. Three more people, six more, ten more…

“ _Shit_.”

Dean’s not stupid. He knows when he’s outmatched, and he’s backing up before the last few pseudo-shelters can reveal their contents. “Cas, let’s go!”

He’s turning to open the door when the catwalk groans and rattles beneath his feet when Cas is tackled to the ground. The woman has the angel on the floor, and Michaels is coming straight for the hunter while the others head up the stairs to meet the battle.

It’s fast and ugly, and Dean’s just thankful that it’s not a full moon and no one’s going to be changing on them. Still, the super-strength and speed aren’t really helping. Dean manages to get Michaels in the leg with a bullet, and the man howls with pain before knocking the gun from Dean’s hands and sending it to the floor below. They’re wrestling soon, and Dean can barely hear the cries of dying werewolves over the rushing blood in his ears, and he’s quietly thankful that that sword works.

Still, there’s too many of them, and despite their fighting, the two are captured, tied down, and dragged to the lower level. The werewolves throw Cas and Dean in the center of the floor and gather around them to form a ring. A quick survey tells Dean that there’s twelve of them now, another half dozen look to be  lying on the stairs and catwalk, but he can’t be sure. The demon sits up and encourages Cas to do the same, and they put their backs together, allowing them to see everyone.

He turns his head and whispers, “You okay?”

“Yes,” Cas answers, but there’s a gruffness in his voice, and Dean guesses he’s got more than a few scratches on him.

Dean himself has already got a swollen left eye and maybe some bruised ribs, but he’s more worried about getting his heart ripped out right now.

“Jessica, Harry, go get our fallen brothers. We’ll need to bury them,” Michaels murmurs, and two of the members break away from the group and head towards the bodies. He takes a moment to dig at the bullet in his leg, hissing slightly as his nails scrape at skin until he finally manages to get it out and drop it to the ground. After testing out his leg, the head werewolf  turns and looks at the two suspiciously. He doesn’t say anything for a few minutes and circles them like prey, the sound of grunting and bodies being moved echoing off the walls. “So, what are you? Cops?”

Dean laughs and shakes his head. “We look like cops to you?”

“Not particularly. Hunters, then?”

“Well, look at that!” the demon cheers with mock excitement. “Hit the nail right on the head! Cas, tell him what he’s won!”

He feels the angel shift awkwardly behind him before he replies, “I don’t understand. Why should he get—“

“It’s a joke, dude.”

“So, you like being funny, do you?” Michaels stops in front of Dean and kneels down to him level. “You know what’s not funny? Five of my children are dead because of your partner.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Give me a break,” he mutters. He looks the werewolf in the eye and snarls, “They weren’t your _children_. They were random pieces of meat you turned so you could, what, remake your pack? Pathetic.”

Michaels doesn’t seem fazed, but he stands back up and puts his hands in his pocket. “I’m a little more interested in you right now, to be honest. A demon and a human working together? That’s very rare. Usually ends pretty bloody, too.”

The right side of Dean’s lip twitches up, and he shrugs. “What can I say? The dude’s a good hunter. Killed five of your bitches, didn’t he?”

Licking his lips, the head werewolf takes a moment to roll his shoulders and stare Dean down. “You should watch your mouth,” he quietly growls.

“I don’t see why I should. You and every single dog in this place is gonna be dead by the end of the night.”

As the knee smashes into his nose and his head knocks back hard into the angel’s, Dean thinks that he should probably not be so cocky when he’s tied up like this. Castiel flinches and the demon releases a curse, bowing his head to his chest for a moment as he’s hit with pain. Blood gushes down into his mouth and chin, but he snarls through it when he looks back up at Michaels.

“I _think_ you should watch your mouth,” Michaels repeats, and he takes a step back. “Now, what to do with you? I was thinking a hostage situation. Tell the police that we’ve got some civilians, ask for safe passage out of town and we won’t kill ‘em.”

Dean snorts. “You obviously don’t know Sheriff Pearson very well. She’d rather kill a hundred innocent people than let you guys get away.”

“Then I guess we’ll just have to kill you. Some of my pack—,” Dean rolls his eyes, “—aren’t feeling too well. I don’t think they’ll be able to properly hunt. I could leave the two of you here for them, let them feast on your hearts in a couple nights.” Michaels smiles. “Kerry, Louise, James, I want Container 8 cleared and ready for these two. We’re going to use it as a holding block. And don’t forget the devil’s trap!”

An echo of “Yes, Sir”s comes from behind Dean, and he watches three of the people run off. He does another headcount in his mind. That leaves six, plus Michaels. Still not few enough to take on by themselves, especially with their hands tied.

“Wait here while we get your room ready,” the man says, and he turns around. “The rest of you, keep an eye on these two, and escort them to Container 8 once it’s been prepared. I have some work to do.”

Michaels walks away, and Dean leans back against Cas a little bit. Jesus, what a mess. He squirms and turns his head slightly. “Hey,” he whispers, “Don’t worry about this. I’ve got a plan.”

“I told you it was unwise to come in here alone,” the angel mutters back.

Dean’s about to come up with a sassy retort when he hears a loud _thump_ followed by Cas falling away from him.

“No talking,” snaps one of the werewolves, and he can hear his companion wetly coughing.

“Hey, watch it!” Dean snarls, turning to glare at her. He’s answered with a kick to the face, and he falls back with tears stinging in his eyes. His nose is broken now, he’s sure of it, and the blood that was already trickling from his nose turns into a geyser.

The angel and demon sit in silence, and neither of them puts up a fight when they are carted into the storage unit. It’s actually pretty large inside, and Dean wonders if the others are outfitted with makeshift beds and desks to house all these werewolves. Dean’s thrown into the devil’s trap at the back, and they tie Castiel’s ankles together to make sure he doesn’t go anywhere. When they’re gone, it’s pitch black with the exception of the sliver of light coming between the two doors of the container.

“So, Dean, what is your magnificent escape plan? I would certainly love to know,” the angel asks, tinged with cheekiness.

“Just, ah, just hold on.”

Dean’s not dumb enough to keep just one weapon on him. He sits up and manages to wiggle the small knife out of his sleeve and into his hand. It takes a few minutes for him to cut through the rope, but he sighs in relief when his hands are free. He takes a moment to rub the burns on his wrist.

“Your hands are free, but you are still stuck inside a devil’s trap. I do not see how this is helpful.”

Dean glares through the darkness. “How’d you even know?”

“My eyesight is exceptional. I thought we went over this.”

The demon rolls his eyes. “Well, if you can see so well, catch this.” He skids the knife across the ground in the direction of Castiel’s voice. “Don’t cut yourself loose. We don’t want to look suspicious. But I do need you to cut a line through this paint. Just break it enough that I can get out.”

There’s a lot of shuffling, and he hears the angel come closer. There’s then the sound of the knife scratching carefully against metal, much louder than Dean wished it’d be. After a few silent minutes, he hears Cas sit back and relax.

“There. You should be able to get out now,” he says. “What will you do now, though?”

“Okay, here’s the plan. I’m gonna start yelling, lure one of the guards in here. Once he’s in, I’m gonna smoke out and take him.”

“As in possession?”

“Yeah. I’ll find an excuse to leave, sneak out, or whatever, and go tell the sheriff what’s going on and lead her here.”

“Dean, I don’t know about this plan,” Cas sighs, an edge of concern to his voice. “If someone comes in here, I don’t know how I’m going to protect your body.”

“Just stall them or something. It shouldn’t take more than an hour. Besides, as long as no one suspects anything’s wrong, I should be all right.” Dean knows how dangerous a plan this is. Possession is very tricky business. Once he takes over whomever comes in, his body is going to be left completely vulnerable. Anything could happen to him, and he wouldn’t know it. Someone could kill him, and he’d be completely unaware until it was too late, and his essence was dragged back to the body. “Besides, I don’t think we have any other options here.”

There’s a beat of silence before Castiel sighs. “I suppose you’re right. Be careful.”

Dean ignores the way the words make him uncomfortable and looks toward the doors. He settles himself on the ground, takes a deep breath, and starts yelling.

“Hey! _Hey_! Come in here! I want to talk to you, you son of a bitch!”

He waits a moment to hear if anyone’s coming, but there’s nothing. He picks up the screaming again and kicks the wall, filling the room with the sound of metal to aid him. By the time someone _does_ come in, his body and head are aching.

The door slams open and a man walks in, holding a gun—Dean’s gun, from what he can see—in his hand. “Hey, be quiet in here!”

“Yeah, or what?” snaps Dean.

“Or I’ll beat the shit out of you, that’s what.”

Dean sits up, making sure to keep his hands behind his back, rope balled up in his fists. “Someone seems pretty testy. What’s wrong? Someone you like die out there? Girlfriend? Brother? Friend? If you’re nice to me, when I get out of here and kill everyone, I’ll make sure you join them real fast.”

That gets the guy riled up. The werewolf comes inside and approaches the devil’s trap. Using the butt of the of gun, he wails on the demon’s head, snarling and hitting any available body part. After letting him get three hits in, Dean opens his mouth and black smoke pours out and straight between the guard’s lips. The demon’s body falls limp on the ground, and there’s a moment of silence before the guard stretches his fingers.

“Girlfriend,” he muses. “Right on the first guess.”

He bends over and adjusts Dean’s body so that his hands are hidden from anyone who might peek in, giving the appearance of still being tied up. Once he’s sure it looks fine, he turns his attention to Cas.

“Remember: protect my body. I’ll be back soon.”

Castiel nods, and then Dean—or the body he’s possessing, rather—leaves easily, rubbing his knuckles where they’ve begun to bruise. The door shuts behind him, and Castiel looks over at his companion’s body. A broken nose, swollen eye, and some bruised, maybe broken, ribs. Nothing life-threatening, not for now, at least. So all that’s left is to just wait and hope that Dean gets this done right.

\+ + +

Castiel isn’t sure how much time has passed, but he knows that it’s definitely been over an hour. In fact, it feels like it’s been closer to twelve. Nobody’s entered since Dean left, and his body is still breathing lightly in the back of their makeshift prison.

It’s disconcerting, but it seems that the werewolves are unaware that Dean has left, and Dean is still alive. He can count those as minor miracles.

The door opens. The angel squints and mumbles as it stings his eyes, and he watches two men come inside, flashlights illuminating their way.

“Alright, rise and shine,” one of the guards grumbles. He has a bag of bread tucked under his arm, and two glasses of water in his hand. “Can’t have you dying on us just yet.”

Castiel licks his lips. He’s more than a little thirsty, and the water looks welcoming. Of course, he isn’t a fool. He knows better than to accept anything from people who are holding him hostage—and who apparently are hoping to eat his heart later.

“You know, if it were up to me, I would have skinned you alive by now,” the man says quietly, and Cas looks him dead in the eye. “Those were good people out there, and you _slaughtered_ them.”

“Come on, James, let it go,” the other one murmurs. “He’s going to be dead tomorrow, anyway.”

“He _should_ be dead _now_.”

Castiel keeps quiet, not daring to say anything. His eyes flicker to where the other guard throws a few pieces of bread down in front of Dean.

  
“Hey, wake up,” the guard says, kicking Dean’s knee, but the body doesn’t stir at all. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He passed out,” Cas lies. “A couple hours ago.”

“Dammit.” The man gets down on his knees, grabbing Dean by the hair and trying to get a good look at him. “He can’t have gone into shock, right? I didn’t think he was hurt that bad.”

James glances over, but doesn’t seem to care, not as he returns his attention to Castiel.

“That was smart. Bringing a silver sword to come fight us,” he says. “Obviously, it was a lot more efficient than his gun. How many of our kind have you killed, anyway, being a hunter and all? A dozen? Fifty? A hundred? You and your buddy get a sick kick out of killing us?”

“Fuck!”

“What is it?” James snaps without taking his eyes off of the angel.

“I don’t think this dude’s in here. He’s not responding, and there’s a fucking break in the trap!”

James looks over at Dean, and then the two werewolves simultaneously turn their gazes to Cas. His interrogator grabs him hard by the hair to yank his head back.

He snarls, “Where is he?”

Castiel doesn’t breathe a word, doesn’t even whimper when James gives him a hard punch to the stomach and repeats his question. Panic is flooding his system, though, and he doesn’t know how he’s going to get out of this. This would be easy if he weren’t tied down, if his grace wasn’t suppressed and idle, but he’s stuck in this mortal-like body with not a single thing to aid him.

“Shit, dude, what are we going to do?” The other guard is panicking, both his hands on his head as he turns between James and Dean over and over.

“We have to kill him. He could be doing anything out there, getting back-up or something. We have to kill him.”

“No!” Cas can’t help the involuntary response. He stares wide-eyed at the two and shakes his head. “Please, you can’t.”

A smile spreads over James’ face, eyes cold as he lets go of Cas’ hair. “What’s that? You don’t want us to kill your friend?” The angel immediately realizes his mistake when the werewolf stands and walks over to Dean. “Maybe you should have thought about that earlier.”

There’s a loud, sickening crack when James kicks Dean in the stomach. Castiel flinches, the panic growing worse, grace going crazy beneath his skin as it tries to break out. He has to stop this. He has to figure something out.

James puts his foot on one of the demon’s wrists and steps hard, a crunch echoing through the room. Over and over, he continues to pummel Dean’s body, which reacts only by quickening it’s breathing.

And Cas can’t do a damn thing about it. He’s useless, completely useless to stop this, and he feels like throwing up. He needs his powers. He needs his wings and his grace, but he can’t do a damn thing because—

“Please! Please, stop! I’ll give you whatever you want. I have money! My family is wealthy. Look!” James halts for a moment to glance at Castiel, who shuffles around on his knees to show the two werewolves his wrists. “I’m wearing a bracelet. If you remove it, you can see my family’s sigil on the underside. It’s that of the Archae Lucis. The bracelet alone could get you fifteen-thousand dollars, and the lives of my friend and I could get you much more. More than enough to leave this place.”

It feels like his heart is pounding in his throat. He closes his eyes. “Take it and look! Please.”

A moment passes, and the other werewolf gets down on his knees and starts pulling up the angel’s sleeve. The moment the man unhooks the bracelet, there’s a deep rush of power that leaves Castiel’s head spinning. He takes a moment to lean his head against the wall of the container and collect himself.

“This is… James, have you ever seen anything like this before?”

Castiel’s eyes open, and in an instant, his wings snap open—colossal manifestations of celestial power and energy that crackle like lightning as they solidify into brown feathers and flesh and bone. He turns around and grabs the closest werewolf’s face, snarling as he watches holy light flood out of the man’s eyes, nose, and mouth, the skin of his face charring until he falls dead to the floor.

Cas turns to James, who’s standing shock-still with his mouth hanging open. The moment he steps forward, however, the monster starts screaming, “He’s an angel! Help! The dude’s a fucking—“

Castiel grabs the werewolf’s face, and the man is dead in seconds, just another body on the floor. He wastes no time on going to Dean’s side, looking him over. His face is almost unrecognizable, and he keeps coughing up blood. Cas pulls his wings in close to his body and places a finger on his friend’s forehead. He can’t heal him completely, but he can at least stop the internal bleeding for now.

He’ll have to take care of Dean later, though, because he can hear the werewolves talking outside, shuffling around uncertainly. He’ll have to do this fast to make sure no one gets out.

The moment someone pokes their head through the door, James’ name halfway from their lips, he launches himself forward and grabs their face. He doesn’t waste time watching the werewolf die, but takes a moment to look around and survey the area. He can sense every single one of them, feel each corrupted soul pulsing in the room, and the remaining nine who are alive are all in the warehouse.

When he steps out of Container 8, a couple people start screaming, and half of them start running. He flicks his wrist, and every door instantaneously locks, sealing everyone in.

Castiel feels no sympathy as he fights. He kills with his hands, and nothing else, ignores the painless bullets and knives that bury into his skin. This is nothing more than a slaughter. No one can outrun him. No one can kill him. He goes to every single person and burns the soul out of their body, watches indifferently as they fall in a lifeless heap.

Geoffrey Michaels is the last die, locked inside the first shipping unit. The doors swing open in front of Castiel, revealing the lavishly decorated compartment and the head werewolf in the back, with Castiel’s sword brandished out in front of him.

“I thought I’d seen this weapon before,” he hisses, body shaking.

“You have no chance here, Geoffrey.” Castiel steps inside, his voice calm and collected despite the anger boiling away inside of him. “Every one of your kinsmen has fallen. The police will be here soon. Put down the weapon.”

Michaels laughs. “I know what this can do! It can kill angels, too! I’ve seen others turn your weapons against you. I’m not letting that bitch at the police station kill me. And you sure as hell aren’t going to kill me, either!”

He starts to rush forward. When Castiel puts out his hand, his opponent is stopped in his tracks. He’s rendered completely immobile, until his arm starts to slowly move. It pops and cracks, moving jaggedly until the point of the sword is over his own heart. A twist of Cas’ wrist, and he watches the werewolf impale himself on the sword before falling to the ground.

Once the last man is dead, the angel falls to his knees, exhaustion flooding over him. The old wounds from his brother have not completely healed yet, and he feels them pulse with renewed pain now that the adrenaline has worn down. The other wounds, those of mortal instruments, heal immediately.

He can feel something moving in the periphery, immediately feels it and knows it as Dean. Cas motions behind himself and allows the doors to the outside to unlock but stays slumped against the wall.

He hears a door open, quiet footprints, and then a call. “Cas?” It’s the same werewolf Dean possessed, voice painted with a dash of concern.

He grabs the angel blade from Michaels before he stumbles out of the container and into the main room, wings tucked safely away and out of view now that the fighting is over. It seems Dean entered through a door on the same level, and he’s gazing around at all of the bodies with a look of awe. His gaze is immediately dragged over to Castiel.

“Dude, how the hell—“

“You’re very hurt,” Cas rasps out, leaning in the door. “I’m sorry.”

The demon appears confused, but immediately leaves his vessel. The angel watches the smoke rush into the unit they were in and follows as fast as he can, tucking the sword in one of the inner pockets of his coat.

Dean is coughing and trying to force himself up to his feet. Rushing to his side, Castiel grabs the demon’s shoulder and waist to stop him from falling. Dean stills a moment, then tries to shrug him off.

“Stop, I’m okay,” he mutters, but his legs buckle beneath him, and he’s forced to put all his weight on the angel.

“You’re very hurt,” Cas repeats. “We need to get you home.”

Dean seems about to protest for a moment, but then says, “Police… On their way.”

“I will handle them. Just go to sleep.” He brushes a finger over Dean’s forehead, and the man’s body immediately sags in unconsciousness.

Castiel carefully collects the bracelet from one of the fallen werewolves and tucks it safely away in his pocket. As he does so, he can hear the doors slam open and the police rush in.

The warehouse is full of yelling again, and Castiel’s head can’t take it. Still, he’s quick to put himself under a guise of humanity, not wanting anyone to be the least suspicious of him. The yelling fades, and Cas grits his teeth as he lifts Dean onto his uninjured shoulder and carries him out.

“What the hell happened in here?” The sheriff comes down the stairs from the catwalk, half-amazed as she looks at all the bodies.

“I did.” He shuffles out and starts heading for the door. “Sixteen werewolves, plus the one that Dean possessed. That’s thirty-four hundred dollars that you owe us.”

“Wait.” Castiel pauses. “Werewolves can only be killed with a bullet to the heart. This doesn’t look anything like that.”

“It was magic.”

“Certainly no kind of magic _I’ve_ ever seen.”

The angel pauses to glance around at the two dozen policemen who are gathered, all looking pretty confused. He doesn’t respond to her, though. There’s nothing he can say, and he’s already put himself—and Dean—in enough trouble as it is.

When they’re outside, and he’s sure no one sees, he flies them all the way home. It takes less than the blink of an eye, but Castiel’s exhausted once they arrive. His body aches with the overuse of his power, but he still manages to take Dean to his room and lay him carefully on the bed.

He leaves, and when he returns a few minutes later with a damp washcloth, Dean has already awoken. He’s gritting his teeth in pain, broken, scrambled wrist held out to the side.

“Dude, what the fuck happened while I was gone?” he grunts out. “How are you—“

“I will tell you later, once you are in better shape,” Cas says quietly. “Now, just stay still.”

He places a hand on Dean’s chest and starts to channel his grace into healing him. His eyes wander to the man’s wrist, where he can see the bones move and repair themselves. After a few seconds, though, the hunter shoves hard at him, pushing him away.

“Fuck, no, _stop_!” he coughs out, sitting up.

Cas’ shoulders tense, and he releases a heavy sigh. “Dean, I’m trying to heal you. Your ribs are puncturing your intestines. I was only able to halt your bleeding earlier, but I still need to fix you. If you don’t let me help you, you will die.”

“I don’t—“ Dean stops to cough violently, spurting blood onto himself and the bed. “Don’t care. Just don’t-don’t fucking touch me. I don’t wa-want you to touch me. I’ll be fucking… _fine_.”

There’s a stinging sensation in Castiel’s chest, but he can only vaguely register what it is. He pulls his lips into a tight line and shakes his head.

“You are an idiot,” he murmurs.

Dean peers up through the pain, ready to shoot something venomous at the angel, but the moment Cas touches his forehead, he’s passed out again, this time for good.

\+ + +

Dean wakes up in the morning feeling perfectly fine. When he sits up in bed, he realizes that not only does he have no injuries, but some of his scars are completely missing as well. It takes a moment to recall what happened last night, but when it floods back to him, it knocks him on his ass.

He left to get the police. Sheriff Pearson refused to send her men out to fight werewolves on a night so close to the full moon. Dean was going to leave to go take them out himself and save Castiel, but the Sheriff said she’d detain him if he even tried and kept her eye on him the whole night. When dawn finally rolled around, Dean was fast to put their plan into action: go inside and pretend he (or, rather, his meatsuit) had turned while he was out, tell everyone to gather around so that he could tell them about what he learned about the police’s plans, and then once they were all gathered out, the police would storm in and kill everyone in a single sweep of gunfire.

Instead, he went inside, saw everyone on the ground looking eerily similar to that vamp Cas smoked, and had a moment of panic that the angel was gone. And then Castiel came out from one of the storage containers, looking a little worse for wear and telling him that Dean’s seriously injured

The hunter is sure that when he went to sleep, he had all kinds of things wrong with him. But now there is nothing. Even when he touches his face, he can’t feel any kind of bruising or swollenness. It’s like he just had a really long, really bad dream.

He shoots out of bed.

“Cas?” he yells as he comes out of the bedroom. “You sleeping?”

His heart is beating fast in his chest. There’s no answer, and the house is completely silent. Dean feels like he’s going to be sick. All that he can think is ‘ _The son of a bitch saved my life_ ,’ ‘ _He has his powers back_ ,’ ‘ _We’re even now_ ,’ ‘ _He has no reason to stay_.’ He goes to the other bedroom and knocks loudly, calling the angel’s name again. When there’s silence still, he opens the door. No Cas, just a neatly made bed.

He goes through the rest of the house quickly, even goes outside to see if Cas just went outside for a moment. But once he sees there’s not a soul around, he walks back inside and sits down on the couch.

The nausea doesn’t go away, and his throat hurts. So, it seems Cas did it. He left. Well… well, it was about time! Sure, Crowley will be pissed, but it’s not like Dean wanted him around anyway. He was just a pain in the ass.

But even as he tries to tell himself that, part of him knows he’s going to miss the company and the breakfasts and watching Star Trek and Thundercats and Dr. Sexy together and having someone to share stories with and comfortable silences.

The door opens and he jumps up, running a cursory hand over his face. It’s Castiel, one arm laden with grocery bags.

Dean clears his throat before he asks stupidly, “Where, uh… Where were you?”

“At the supermarket. We were running low on food, and you should get a decent breakfast after yesterday.”

“Oh.”

The demon follows him into the kitchen and watches as he begins putting things away. He notices that Cas doesn’t have the bracelet on anymore, but doesn’t say anything.

“Where did you think I’d gone?”

Dean sniffs in a light chuckle and shakes his head. “Nowhere, I guess.”

And the relief he feels is very, very dangerous.

A few moments pass, and Dean licks his lips. “So, uh, how are you feeling?”

Cas pauses in putting away the eggs. “Good,” he says quietly before returning to his chore. “It was good to stretch my wings, even for a macabre cause. About an hour before you came back, two of the werewolves came in to feed us. I couldn’t stop them from figuring out that you escaped, and they were preparing to kill you. I tricked one of them into taking off my bracelet, and then proceeded to kill everyone.” He balls up the plastic bags and sticks them under the sink with the rest. “Do you… want me to put it back on? I grabbed it on our way out to avoid anyone finding it.”

Dean should say yes. Dean should tell him to put it back on, because that’s how they’re supposed to live. Cas is going to be some kind of slave in the future, and Dean can’t trust him, even if he _did_ save his life when he had no need to. Right?

That doesn’t stop him from shaking his head, though, and saying, “Nah. You’re coming off as a human anyway. As long as you can keep that up, I think we’ll be okay.”

Shoulders relaxing, the angel looks up at him and gives the most sincere smile. “Thank you.”

Dean has to look away for a few seconds, but then decides to tell what happened on his end. After all, he left the guy in there for ten hours. The dude deserves an explanation. When he’s finished, he asks, “So, uh… You didn’t happen to take the Impala to the grocery, did you?”

Cas looks confused and shakes his head. “Of course not. I don’t know how to drive.” The last of the groceries are put away and Cas adjusts the front of his trench coat (seriously, it’s like he wears nothing else anymore). “I can fly us back to town after we have dinner. Then we can pick your car and your money. We made three-thousand, four-hundred dollars last night.”

The demon nearly chokes. He hadn’t put it money terms, but now that Cas has, it sounds insane. With that kind of money, he could live for an entire month with no jobs. Hell, they could afford to eat a couple steaks if they wanted to!

Scratch that: _Dean_ could eat steaks, meanwhile Castiel would be going to God knows where and surviving on a diet that would probably consist of scraps and filthy water.

“Yeah. That’s fine. Let’s do that, then,” he nods, sobered by his own thoughts.

Dean avoids any conversation during breakfast. Cas flies them back to town easily(though Angel Airlines proves to be the worst experience of the demon’s life, resulting in feeling like he’s gone through a terrifying meat grinder). He checks on the Impala first, then unlocks her door, telling Cas to sit tight while he goes and collects

He’s surprised when he’s greeted with a rather surly-looking Sheriff Pearson.

“What?” he grins, gesturing out with his hands. “Pissed that we killed _all_ the werewolves?”

The woman shakes her head. “Can I talk to you in private?” She leads him to her office and makes sure the door is firmly closed before turning to him. “You look really good for a guy who nearly got beat to death.”

Chuckling, he rubs the back of his neck. “What can I say? I’m a fast healer.”

She purses her lips and crosses her arms over her chest. “Dean… Are you sure you know everything about that partner of yours?”

“Huh?” He gives her a weird look, trying not to show the anxiety that’s suddenly growing in his stomach. “What do you mean?”

“I _mean_ no simple magic trick could have killed all those werewolves,” the sheriff says slowly. “They’re killed by silver, not by getting their insides boiled. I’ve only seen one creature be able to kill like that.”

Dean huffs in surprise and shakes his head. “What? Are you trying to say Jimmy is an _angel_? Come on, that’s ridiculous. Why would he be hanging out with me?”

“I don’t know,” she says, “but I’d watch yourself, Dean. We found _feathers_ in there, and they weren’t from any bird. Whatever he wants with you, it’s not good. I would find an excuse to kick him to the curb as soon as possible. Angels are bad news. Angels that aren’t _telling_ you they’re angels? I doubt he’s got something good up his sleeve.”

Dean’s back at the car a few minutes later, four large rolls of cash tucked into his pockets. He’s shaken but relieved that Liana didn’t seem suspicious of him—just of Cas. Having _anyone_ know what the dude’s an angel is dangerous.

Then again, Cas is only going to be around for eleven more days, so maybe it doesn’t even matter.

He climbs into the Impala and starts her up without a word.

“Is everything okay?” Cas asks slowly.

“Yeah,” Dean nods, taking in a deep breath. “Everything’s fine.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day is almost here, and Dean has his own very unhealthy way of dealing with it.

Dean’s not sure who’s more frustrated with himself—him or Cas. He spends the next week like a ticking, emotional time bomb. Half the time he’s laughing and shooting the shit while the two of them watch Star Trek, the other half he’s telling the guy to back off, insulting him, trying to drive him away. He’s constantly torn between trying to get the angel to stay and trying to drive him away as far as possible.

Castiel doesn’t just take it, though. After being caught off guard the first few times, he’s now prepared to tell Dean when he’s being ridiculous and should stop. Sometimes the demon calms down, but other times one of the two will storm off for an hour or so. Dean never apologizes, but sometimes Castiel will come back to him cooking burgers (the angel’s favorite) or Dean will tell him they can watch whatever the angel wants. It’s not much, but it usually makes Cas lighten up a bit, and maybe even forgive him slightly.

With the twenty-eighth creeping closer and closer, Dean’s started drinking a lot more than is probably healthy. He’s always thought that was the best perk of being a demon, though; compared to humans, their bodies have an amazing tolerance. No need to worry about your liver failing on you (unless you drink the whole liquor store).

He thinks Cas has noticed. By the sixth day (they made so much money that Dean’s decided to hold off on taking gigs until the angel’s gone), they’ll get back from seeing a movie or dinner, and Cas will immediately distract him by asking if they can watch more Star Trek or if Dean will tell him some hunting stories. On day eight, the beer mysteriously gets moved from the front of the fridge to the back, hidden behind all the food.

But day ten rolls around, and there’s no stopping Dean. He’s grouchy the whole day, and makes no attempts to apologize. He even made sure to stock up for the day. Starting the moment he wakes up, he grabs a full bottle of Jack Daniels and refuses to stop. There’s an aching pain in his chest, guilt crawling over his skin, and he doesn’t want to remember any of this later. He doesn’t even want to remember tomorrow. When it’s all over and done with, he just wants this whole thing to be a blur in the back of his mind, something he can bury with everything else and never have to think about (except for those moments when he’s lying in the dark, unable to sleep, with nothing else to do but review all his failures).

Castiel wakes around two. They’d stayed up pretty late last night, and the guy refuses to function on less than a perfect eight hours if he can help it. He walks, nearly naked, to the bathroom, and a quick glance tells Dean that the guy is nearly healed. He’s not wearing bandages anymore, and from what the demon saw, the scarring is almost completely gone.

He takes another drink.

Being drunk at three in the afternoon is not something Dean’s experienced in a long time. However, he is _definitely_ drunk. When Cas returns from his shower, smelling like soap and dressed in clean clothes, the demon is yelling at the woman on the television. He’s not sure why he turned on the news channel in the first place; it’s usually just for finding possible hunts. But when he scanned through the channels and saw what they were talking about, there was no way he could just pass it.

“Do you friggin see this shit?” he grumbles, gesturing at the television. “Looks like your buddies are having a fucking field day.”

Over the course of the last two months, more and more cities have been razed, burned completely to the ground with not a chance of revival. “A Great Purge,” it’s being called. Areas of dissent are being sniffed out, and Heaven’s hammer is hitting them harder than ever before. The residents – _traitors_ , the anchorwoman calls them – all get trapped inside the city somehow (magic, Dean guesses), and the entire town and everyone in it is obliterated. Anyone who somehow survives, whether through some clever hoodoo or even just being a monster immune to fire, is killed immediately after.

The screen shows videos of a town in Pennsylvania that was taken out yesterday. Whatever kind of fire was used, it wasn’t normal. Every inch of the place is gone, reduced to smoldering rubble. He thinks he can see skeletons in the ashes.

Cas is slow to approach, but when he does, he sits down right next to the hunter and they watch in silence.

It flashes back to the anchorwoman. _“President Michael has released a statement saying that this Great Purge is in the interest of keeping all the citizens of the world—angel, human, and demon alike—safe from those who would do the state and its people harm.”_

“Do you _see_ this shit?” Dean scoffs as it turns to a story about a string of local robberies. “Like anyone’s gonna believe that.”

 

The angel is quiet. He’s still staring at the TV, brows furrowed and mouth pulled into a thin line. Obviously, something’s wrong. Cas always reads the morning paper after Dean, so it’s not like this is the first time he’s seen what his brothers have been doing, but he’s rattled. That much is undeniable. And even though he doesn’t _want_ to care, even in his drunken state Dean has to ask, “What?”

“Aren’t you disturbed that they’re doing this?” he asks, glancing over at Dean. “Killing thousands of people?”

The demon shrugs. “Hell if I care,” slurs Dean, “It’s not like they don’t do this kind of stuff all the time. Now it’s just on the news.” Shaking his head incredulously, the angel tightens his jaw and turns his gaze back to the screen. Dean raises his brows, knowing that’s Cas-code for ‘immensely pissed the fuck off.’ “You want a beer or something?”

The angel sighs, exasperated, but doesn’t look at Dean. “ _No_ ,” he replies sharply, “and I don’t think _you_ should be drinking, either. You’ve been ridiculous about it these past few days.”

“Yeah, and what’s it to you?” the demon snaps back. He looks at his bottle and realizes that he’s running low. He’ll take any excuse to leave right now. When he gets up, though, he catches Cas glaring. “ _What_?”

“Why are you behaving like this? Ever since the last hunt, you have been capricious and overbearing, and I think I deserve to know why.”

Sighing loudly, Dean rolls his eyes and goes to the kitchen. Yeah, like he’s gonna explain _that_. As soon as he starts rattling around the fridge for another drink, though, he hears Cas stand and approach. The demon’s about to tell the guy to go fuck himself when, in good ol’ Cas fashion, he says something to leave the hunter frozen in place.

“Meg said you have a fear of abandonment.”

After a brief pause, he puts the Jack Daniels away and stands to look at Cas. “What?”

“She said that because your family is gone, you’re always afraid that people are going to leave you. She said that that, coupled with your abrasive nature, is why you’re always—”

Dean stumbles forward and grabs Cas by the front of his shirt. The angel doesn’t budge at all, unlike a few weeks ago when they were almost on equal ground. Without his bracelet, Castiel isn’t tied down, and the air around them buzzes with his irritation and power. Dean can feel the power emanating off of the angel, warming him to stay back, but he doesn’t care. “Where the hell do you—do either of you—get off saying that?”

Castiel raises his hands and puts them gently on top of the demon’s. “Dean, if—“

“No. _No_! Fuck you, I don’t want to hear it!” he snarls, giving the man a hard shake. His stomach is rolling, and he feels nauseous. “Don’t you ever try to pretend you know a damn thing about me! You talk all the time like you know about me o-or-or Sam or my family.  You don’t know a goddamn thing. God, I could fucking—“

A weird sound comes out of his throat. He stumbles in his speech and looks down between them for a moment. When his mouth next opens, it’s not words coming from it, but a stream of bile that rises quickly through his throat. Then, he’s puking between them, right onto the floor and over both of their clothes.

He lets go of the angel to double-over, trying to suppress it as best he can. He can feel a hand on his back, but doesn’t shy away from it. His chest heaves, and Cas grips his shoulder.

“Let’s get to the bathroom.”

God, is this embarrassing. Bent over the toilet, puking for the first time in three years like some sixteen-year-old kid who can’t hold his liquor, with an angel standing behind him, rubbing his back and offering him glasses of water to drink.

If he died right now, Dean thinks he’d be absolutely okay with that.

Once Cas sees that the demon should be able to hold his own, he leaves, probably to clean himself up and to clean the kitchen floor. A half hour later and the angel returns to sit as company, not saying a word and occasionally providing more water to drink.

Dean hugs the toilet for another hour before he finally risks standing up. He’s a bit shaky, but he manages.

“You should try eating something light. It will help,” Cas tries to tell him, but just the word ‘eat’ makes him feel like he’s going to vomit again.

“No way, dude… I think I’m going to lay down.”

Nodding, the angel helps lead Dean back to his room. He strips off the demon’s stained shirt, then pushes him gently down.

“I’ll get you some water.”

When Castiel returns, Dean’s nearly passed out. He sets a pitcher of water and a glass on the end table, but the hunter doesn’t hear him leave until a few minutes have passed. Once he’s gone, though, Dean falls straight to sleep.

\+ + +

He wakes up about three hours later. He doesn’t feel awesome, but he definitely feels a little better—and slightly more sober. He’s not going to throw up again, that’s for sure. He thinks back, trying to remember exactly what went down, and as he recalls the conversation, Dean can’t help but cringe. He’s still pissed, of course, but he also realizes how close he was to saying something he really, _really_ shouldn’t have said.

After changing his sheets, he stumbles out to the bathroom to wash up, trying to be as fast as possible as he moves between rooms so he doesn’t have to face Cas. It works the first time, but after he’s gotten his shower and starts to go back to the bedroom, the angel catches him.

“Do you think you could handle eating something?” he asks, tearing his gaze from the television. “You haven’t eaten all day.”

That’s true. Dean didn’t have anything before he started drinking, and now his stomach is upset and growing at him. While the idea of food makes him a bit queasy, he knows he should eat.

“Yeah. I might go for some toast or something.”

When Dean comes back from getting dressed, Cas has already got a plate of toast—buttered and everything—ready for him. The hunter approaches the dining table and stares at the small meal, frown cutting deep lines in his brow. He glances back up at the angel.

“Why’d you do all this?”

“Hm?” The angel turns down the volume on the television and turns to him. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Why’d you do all this? The toast, the helping me while I puked my guts out. Healing me the other day. Why’d you do all this?”

He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand any of it at all. Anyone else would have left Dean a long time ago. Hell, Cas can go anywhere he wants now that he’s not wearing that bracelet, yet he never tries to leave. He always stays. Even when he’s pissed as hell, he doesn’t go far, usually just wanders into the adjacent woods for a bit before he returns. But he never hesitates to do what Dean asks, to help him, and it all goes far beyond the simple reasoning of “repayment.”

The TV turns off, and Castiel rises to come join the demon. He gestures for the man to sit down, and they both do so. Dean is waiting for an answer, but the angel nods to his food.

“Eat first. Then we can talk.”

Normally he wouldn’t take that, but Dean figures he can throw the guy a bone this time. He eats, slowly so as not to worsen his stomach. It’s only two pieces of toast, but it still takes him a few minutes to get it all down. Once he does, he looks up at Cas expectantly, and the angel sighs.

“Ever since we met, you have tried to put on this persona of yourself as a heartless monster, one whose only purpose in this world is to torture, drink, and have sexual intercourse. You perform an idea of yourself, but I never believe you,” he says. “Of course, you have an affinity for violence and sin that is common among demons, but even with Paul Owens, I have yet to see you commit an act worse than what I have seen my own brothers do.

“I have told you before, but you have much more humanity than you like to believe. While you may behave cruelly towards many, you are kind and generous to those whom you know, even just those who reside in your community.”

Dean takes a drink of water, rather skeptical of all of this. “I’ve been kind of a dick to you, though.”

“Yes, you have behaved quite awfully to me at times,” Castiel agrees, nodding, “but you have also showed me unneeded kindness. For every moment you have been vicious, you have also been congenial.” The angel puts his hands on the table, lacing his fingers together. “You could have treated our relationship purely as business, but you have instead treated me, in most respects, like a friend. I see no reason why I should not return the gesture.”

He wants to throw up again. All his mind keeps going back to is that this is the last day. This is the last day that Cas gets to be a free man. Less than twenty-four hours from now, he’ll be in Crowley’s possession, stripped of his powers, wings ripped off, sold. And Dean can’t stop it.

That’s what he tells himself.

It’s already done.

But then the asshole keeps talking about how they’re _friends_ and Dean’s been _so nice_ to him, and he just wants to scream the truth in the angel’s face. He doesn’t want to hear any of this. All it does is make the guilt worse, and even though the thought of alcohol aches his stomach worse than anything else, he can think of no alternative that will get him through this.

“We’re not friends, Cas. Being friends isn’t the same thing as not being an asshole,” he says, words half-hearted as he tries to defend himself.

“We _are_ friends,” says the angel, pure determination in his eyes as he stares Dean down. “No matter what you say, I know you think we are, too.”

But of course Dean would never admit to that. Because how could he? “Yeah, Cas, we’re friends! That’s why I’m selling you into slavery so that I can move the fuck out of here and live out the rest of my life alone and torturing any monsters that happen to wander by my house!” Yes, that would go over well.

A thought _does_ occur to him, though. He could say no—to _Crowley_. He could tell him to stick where the sun don’t shine. To forget the deal and forget trying to come after Dean’s stuff, because he’d be dead before he stepped within a hundred yards. And then Cas could stay here and—

He stops. He can’t go any further with that thought, only because it’s so ridiculous. Cas? _Stay_ here? Why would he want to do that? Even if they are “friends,” the guy would never want to stay here. He wants to go back _home_ , apparently, or go somewhere far away from them. And Dean can’t blame him, because his house doesn’t exactly fit into either of those two categories. Not to mention that Dean’s practically the Roommate from Hell. What reason could an angel have for wanting to stay here?

“Do you want to watch some more Star Trek?” Dean asks, fiddling with his cup of water. “I think I could go for some lying down on the couch.”

The agreement is a relief, if only because they can stop this conversation. Dean crashes on the couch, and Cas sits in the arm chair. They get through a few episodes before the demon’s appetite starts to return, and his companion offers to make dinner.

 “Just don’t poison me.”

It’s pasta and sauce, nothing special, and it’s easy on Dean’s stomach. But he keeps watching the clock, keeps counting down the hours until Cas is going to be gone forever, and it nauseates him all over again.

When one o’ clock rolls around, Castiel lets out a yawn. He turns off the television as the end credits roll.

“We should go to bed,” he says. He rises from his chair and goes to Dean, offering a hand.

Grunting, the demon sits up, and he takes it without hesitation. His legs are still a little wobbly, but he thinks that’s more from nerves than anything else. Cas turns, heading for his room, but Dean’s words stop him.

“My mom died when I was four,” he says, voice hitching slightly. This isn’t a story he tells… ever, really. There’s only a few people that have ever heard it, and most of them are dead. It’s always seemed to be a pattern that those who get too close to the Winchesters end up six feet under. “A demon came in, was lurking in Sammy’s room. Mom saw, so he… The guy killed her and burned the house down.

“Dad became obsessed. He raised Sam and I to be hunters. Sam ended up leaving for college. He didn’t want anything to do with us. He was always kind of weird, really. Didn’t like hurting people. He was friendly, people liked him. Had a soft spot for humans and monsters, too, and he was always real smart and nerdy. But we got him back, and the three of us killed the demon. But, uh… Dad didn’t make it.” He’s surprised at how hard it is to talk about this. Mom, Dad, Sam. They’ve all been gone for a long time now, but the thought is still painful, and the words are even worse. “That left just me and Sam.”

Dean looks at the ground, because he can’t look at Cas right now, not while the guy’s drowning in the clothes that his brother used to wear. “We had a fight a few years ago. He went off, and I didn’t hear from him until a few months later, when I get a letter from the freaking Chief of Police in Tuscany that he died.” He brushes a hard hand over his eyes.

“Apparently he got killed trying to stop a couple of demons from beating up these humans. Things got nasty and…” Dean shakes his head and gives a haflt-hearted chuckle. “Humans lived. The demons got pretty messed up. And Sam just…” He sighs. “Figures he’d go out like some kind of hero.”

When the silence settles in, Dean regrets saying this at all. His eyes burn, and he can feel his throat closing up on him. Everything is awful, and he’s going to just go back to his room when Cas reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he says gently.

The demon shrugs it off, though, hoping that his sniff isn’t as loud as it seems. “There’s nothing to be sorry about it. It’s just how things are,” he mumbles. “I wouldn’t say I have ‘abandonment issues’ or whatever that bitch told you… But I’d rather you hear the story from me than be going off whatever _Meg_ told you.”

Cas takes a step forward, and they’re a lot closer than they usually are, which is definitely saying something. The angel licks his lips, and Dean wonders if he’s still a little drunk, because he suddenly gets quite a few inappropriate thoughts.

“I think I’ve nearly healed,” he says, eyes glancing down for a brief second. “I should be on my way any day now.”

Hearing that said hurts more than Dean expected. He knows that it’s not going to happen, of course, that Crowley is going to take him instead. But it’s still painful to have Cas say it out loud.

“Yeah. I guess so,” is all he can think of for a reply. He’s not sure where to stare, where to look, so he chooses the angel’s eyes. They seem different, and he doesn’t think it’s because of the Castiel’s grace or energy or any of that.

“Dean… Do you want me to stay?”

His chest and torso tighten up immediately. The question knocks the wind out of him, and he’s left like a deer in the headlights. “Do… Uh…” He fumbles for words. “Do you… _want_ to?”

“Yes… I think I would like to.”

And Dean has to be drunk—he _has_ to be, because there’s no other explanation for his behavior. Relief, happiness, anxiety—it all washes over him in an instant, and he shouldn’t be feeling any of that, not when he _knows_ that this time tomorrow, Cas will be far out of his reach.

But as he goes forward and pulls the angel in for a firm, thankful kiss, he realizes that the moment he told Cas not to put on the bracelet was the moment he decided that Crowley was no longer in the equation.

His fingers cup the angel’s face, the tips digging slightly into his cheeks, sliding into his hair. Neither of them move for a moment, both surprised by this turn of events, and the longer Cas goes without doing anything, the more embarrassed Dean gets. Finally, he has to pull away, and his cheeks turn red. The words _You’re so fucking stupid_ are already rolling on a loop in his head, and he’s ready to apologize, but Cas grabs him and kisses him back.

That’s all the consent Dean needs before he’s leading them into his room and lowering Cas onto the bed. The two kiss passionately, the demon’s hands planting themselves firmly on either side of Cas’ face while the angel’s roam and grab curiously at whatever they can find.

It’s not long before Dean starts to feel for the buttons on their shirts, their pants, and one-by-one, pieces of their clothing fall to the floor. Cas’ body is beautiful, but it’s marred by the scars from his battle, the one that drove them together. They stop kissing long enough for the demon to look at each one and carefully run his fingers over the raised skin. He can’t imagine that scars are a normal thing for angels, and he silently hopes that they’ll heal one day.

But he doesn’t want to linger there for long, not when he notices that Cas’ eyes are following the motions, face not quite hiding a twinge of pain. The hunter moves south, then, and slides his fingers in the waistband of Cas’ pants to tug them and expose the angel’s half-hard cock against his leg.

Dean’s not usually in this position. He prefers to be on the receiving end of this kind of thing, but if the angel’s as much of a virgin as he claims, then he figures it’d probably be best for the demon to lead the way for now. They can switch things up on another day, some other time, but right now Dean is just so damn happy that he doesn’t care what he does as long as he can make Cas stay.

_Cas is staying_.

That’s what really drives him forward. The thought that Castiel, Angel of the Lord, is staying here, _wants_ to stay here, is overwhelming. And he doesn’t think of how this could go wrong. He doesn’t wonder how he’s going to get out of this deal with Crowley. He doesn’t worry that Cas is lying to him). All he cares about is that he’s happy—really, _really_ happy—for the first time in a long time, and he just wants the angel to be happy, too.

After sinking to his knees on the floor, Dean runs his hands over the creases between the other man’s legs and hips, feeling the body shudder beneath his touch. The angel leans back on one hand, the other running through the short crop of hair on the demon’s head. Dean teases with his hands, his fingers, exploring the intimate details of a body that he’s thought of more than once while he was by himself (and sometimes with someone else). He can feel the angel harden under his touch, hum deep in his throat at every pleasuring caress.

There’s a strange noise, like fluttering cloth, when Dean’s lips touch against the head, but he ignores it, focusing instead on closing his eyes and working the angel’s cock as best he can. He makes his way down farther and farther along the shaft until Cas is buried completely inside his mouth. Green eyes flutter open, and the demon looks up to see the other’s face.

Then he chokes, and Cas yelps, because _holy fuck_ he wasn’t expecting that.

Dean falls right back onto his ass, staring up at Castiel like nothing he’s ever seen before—or, more accurately, staring up at Castiel’s _wings_. They’re manifested, one spread out across the bed and the other draped across the room, and it’s like the angel’s sitting in front of a backdrop of feathers. Cas doubles over slightly, making Dean jump as the wings move with him, perfectly in-tune with body. The demon’s never seen an angel’s fully-formed wings, not in person, and he just can’t stop staring, mouth slightly open.

“Dean, I’m so sorry,” Cas spits out, face turning bright with embarrassment. “They-they’re triggered by adrenaline, and I just couldn’t—if I concentrate, I can put them back. I apologize, I just—“

Dean rushes in, “No, no, no! No way, man!” He sits back up and slowly gets closer, hands reaching to stroke a feather before stopping short. “I’m not going to turn into a pillar of salt if I touch them or anything, right?”

Castiel chuckles and shakes his head. “No. It might… feel strange, I think, but you shouldn’t be harmed.”

Dean nods, and then lets his fingers glide over the feathers. They’re softer than he thought, and Cas is right; it almost feels like touching an electric socket, like his fingers are buzzing with energy that slowly fills up the rest of his body. Castiel shudders, and the wing presses into the demon’s touch.

Fuck blow jobs. _This_ is how Dean wants to get Cas off.

After shucking off the rest of his own clothes, he gets onto the bed, unable to stop himself from petting the angel. He tells the man to get onto his hands and knees, and Cas does so without question (though he seems a little upset that he’s not getting blown). That doesn’t last very long, though, because soon Dean’s running his hands through the feathers, gently at first until he gathers the courage to work his fingers in deeper. Castiel arches into every touch, and his gentle moans are muffled by the pillow.

Dean spends a long time there, but he eventually moves on. He has to remove himself for just a moment to dig around the bedside table for lube, and he wastes no time in prepping himself and then working on the angel.

Fingers slicked up, he presses one against the angel’s entrance, a thrill running through him at the thought that no one else has touched Cas here. The man tenses up, but Dean presses a kiss to the small of his back, free hand stroking soothingly at his waist.

“Just relax,” he says into the skin. “I’ll take care of it.”

It gets the angel to loosen a little bit, and Dean starts to work him open. It’s the slowest this process has ever been, but he finds himself not minding, especially as he gets to watch those awesome wings stretch across the room, things that have always been symbols of ethereal power, meant to strike fear in the hearts of anyone who might have to see them. But here they are so much different. They aren’t meant to be tools of destruction, but act as an extension of pleasure and trust.

Dean moves one hand to Castiel’s cock and strokes him slow, his other fingers testing how loose he is. Once the angel is ready, Dean moves both his hands to the man’s hips. Cas groans and wiggles them in frustration, trying to push back, and Dean smiles slightly. The tip of his cock presses against the angel’s entrance, and he waits just a moment to brace himself before beginning to push inside.

Cas moans loudly, hands clutching desperately at the sheets and pillows, trying to find purchase anywhere they can. Shushing him, Dean gently reminds him that he needs to relax. It takes several minutes to fully sheath himself inside the other man, but once he does, he has to take a moment to appreciate how beautiful this all is.

He leans over so that his chest is almost pressed against Cas’ back. His face is buried in feathers, and one hand reaches up to grab the top of a wing. The other snakes down and wraps around the angel’s cock, and soon he’s pumping it in time with his thrusts.

It’s fast for both of them. Cas is the first to go off, coming within a minute. He’s not loud, but quiet, breathing in sharply and bucking back against the demon. Hissing through his teeth, he buries his face in the pillow and grunts into it. He doesn’t move for a moment, even as Dean starts to pound him even faster, but as he comes down from his high, he becomes more pliant beneath the hunter.

Dean follows suit rather quickly. Try as he might, he can’t keep himself for too long, not with his face buried in feathers that light him up with sensation and angel come smeared across the top of his sheets.

He supports Cas by the chest and wing when he gives his final thrusts, and stays there for a moment as he empties himself. He feels the wings disappearing beneath his touch, dematerializing. As he pulls out, the feathers become transparent and fade away, leaving nothing but two naked, sweat-covered bodies on the bed.

Neither seems to mind the mess as they fall side-by-side, facing each other. They don’t say anything, and Dean can’t help but lean forward to press another gentle kiss to Castiel’s lips. No words need to be spoken as they gather close, arms wrapped around each other and legs intertwined. It hangs in their air, a truth that needs no words in order to be understood. And when Dean falls asleep, he can’t remember the last time he felt so at ease.


	8. Chapter 8

Waking up is very surreal. Dean can’t remember the last time he awoke to someone next to him in bed and didn’t want to kick them out. Reminded of yesterday’s events, he can’t help but smile. Cas is staying. He’s going to stay right here, next to Dean, and he’s not going to leave. Of course, there’s going to be Crowley to deal with, but he can do that later.

The angel is still asleep. With the shades drawn, the room is dim and unsaturated, but Dean can still see him perfectly. They somehow changed positions during sleep, and the demon is tucked up right against Cas, his back to the angel’s chest. He carefully peels himself away and moves so that he can get a better look at his companion.

Now, he’s not about to wax poetic about how gorgeous Cas is or how happy he is that the guy’s staying, but that doesn’t stop him from admiring the curve of the man’s nose, the way his mouth is open slightly as he sleeps, the way his legs have tangled in the sheets and bare his skin.

He probably spends longer than is not-creepy watching the angel sleep.

Glancing at the end table, Dean squints to get a look at the time. Nine in the morning. They probably fell asleep around three, which means that Castiel has still got two hours of sleep left in him, at least. That will give Dean plenty of time to get his shit together—and maybe he’ll make them both breakfast, afterwards. He’s sure it’s the only thing the angel would wake up for, anyway.

Castiel stirs when Dean starts to roll out of bed, and he reaches out to grab Dean’s hand to  try and drag him back in. Chuckling, the demon turns to rub the guy’s head.

“Go back to sleep,” he whispers, and apparently Castiel needs no other assurance than that to fall back into unconsciousness.

He decides that putting on some pants would be a good idea; Dean can’t imagine Karl Jones next door being too pleased if he looks over and sees a naked Dean through the window, especially after Castiel put bullet holes in the side of his house during his shooting lesson (which no one can _actually_ prove). Before he leaves the room, he snatches his phone off the bedside table and takes one last glance at Cas.

Of course, he’s already got a text message:

          “This is a reminder that your product is due for delivery today at 3pm in basement-level 4A. – Marilyn Ames”

Well, that just makes this easier to deal with.

          “tell crowley the deals off” he writes back.

After glancing it over, he nods. Good enough. He goes out to the front porch to get the newspaper, and by the time he’s standing up, his phone is angrily vibrating in his pocket of his sweatpants.

Here we go.

“What?”

“Dean, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Marilyn sounds slightly panicked on the other line, hissing her words into the receiver. “You can’t just call off the deal!”

Dean holds the cell between his shoulder and cheek as he takes a quick glance through the headlines and goes inside.

“Too bad. I just did,” he mutters on his way to the kitchen.

“Then there are going to be consequences,” she snaps. “Crowley said this is a high-quality product, and you can bet your ass he’s going to come after it with everything he’s got. I don’t know _why_ you think this is a good idea, but if you don’t deliver that to him by three o’ clock today, he’s going to take everything you have.”

A smirk curls the demon’s lips. “Yeah, well, let me see him try. Tell him that if he tries to take a single step on my property, I’ll gank the son of a bitch before he knows what hit him.”

Dean’s done talking, so he hangs up the phone. He doesn’t need to deal with that. Crowley probably knows a hundred ways to kill a demon, but Dean knows a thousand ways to make a demon _wish_ he’d be killed. And if King of the Crossroads feels like testing him, then let him.

After making coffee, he spends some time thumbing through the newspaper, circling any reports that look suspicious, like they might be his kind of thing.

Scratch that— _their_ kind of thing. Because he’s not alone in this anymore. He’s got Cas with him now, and if they were a good team before, they’re going to be even better now.

He’s just gotten to the sports section (which he usually skips, but it doesn’t hurt to skim over it) when there’s a loud knock on the door. Suspicious, the demon glances at it. Before he goes to answer, he goes to the weapons’ closet and grabs a salt gun. The knocking continues, louder this time, and Dean grumbles to himself as he goes over and opens the door.

“I’m guessing your secretary didn’t relay the whole message to you,” Dean growls and he points the shotgun at the visitor.

He has to say, he hadn’t expected Crowley himself to come over. If anything, he thought it’d be some two-bit lackey. But no, it’s just the piece of shit demon himself, Gucci suit and everything.

“Calm down there, Winchester,” the man says, putting his hands up despite seeming unperturbed. “I’ve just come to talk. Besides, if you shoot me, you’ll have to deal with him.” He nods to the side, where something invisible growls and rakes its claws across the wooden porch. Of course he’d bring his hellhound.

Dean lowers the weapon, but he doesn’t move from the doorway. “Whatever crap you’re going to say to try to convince me to hand him over, the answer’s ‘no’,” he snaps, chancing a glance behind him to make sure Cas is still in bed.

“You signed a contract, Dean. I could bring the police into this,” the man warns, but Dean knows better.

“This is a black market deal, not a crossroads deal,” he snorts. “You bring the police into this, and they’re not going to just look over the fact that you’re trying to defeather an angel. They’ll probably just kill you and take Cas for themselves.”

Crowley sniffs, lips tight. “Nicknames, I see. Tell me, if you’re not going to sell it, then what do you plan on doing with it? Keeping it as your own little house pet? From the looks of you—“ His eyes sweep over Dean, lingering on his bare chest and a couple of bruises on the demon’s neck. “—I’d say it’s a little more than that.”

“First of all, his name is Castiel. And second of all, it’s none of your damn business. Dude’s a free man. He can do whatever he wants.”

The other demon chuckles, brows raising. “And it looks like he wants to do _you_ ,” Crowley shoves his hands in the pockets of his trousers. “How long do you think that will last? A week? A month? How long before the novelty of sleeping with a demon wears off?”

Dean pumps the sawed-off and points it at Crowley. “There’s no deal, Crowley. Now, either you and your mutt can scram, or I’ll call Cas out here help me gank both your asses. You feeling like you can take on an angel today?”

He steadies his weapon, glaring at Crowley over it. Growling sounds from beside him, but the other demon strokes the air and it settles.

“Fine, then,” he says, barely concealing a snarl. “I just hope that your little friend in there doesn’t figure out what you were going to do with him. I can’t imagine he’d be very pleased.”

He whistles a sharp note and turns on his heel, heading back to the road. The leaves and dirt just a few feet behind him kicks up with the pace of his hound. Upon reaching the end of the drive, Crowley disappears from sight.

It takes a lot of effort not to slam the door, but Dean somehow manages. He unloads the gun and tosses it on the coffee table. He’s bristling with anger, but there’s nothing he can do about it. He’s sure that Crowley’s going to come back with something, but the demon can’t be sure exactly _what_. They’ll just have to sit and wait, it seems. At least he’s got Cas with him now. Whatever Crowley throws, the two of them can take it.

The thought lightens him up significantly. It’s weird, this feeling of not being alone. He didn’t realize how much it had weighed him down until now. He doesn’t have to worry about waking up tomorrow to an empty house that creaks and groans with the memories of his family. Of course, it could all change in a day, a month, a year. But he’s not going to think about that. For once, he’s going to try to be happy.

He starts to make breakfast, and at some point, the smells must wake up the angel. When Dean looks back towards his bedroom a few minutes later, Castiel is standing in the doorway, buck-naked and completely unabashed as he stretches and rubs his eyes.

“What are you making?” the angel mumbles as he comes forward. He never was a morning person.

“The usual,” replies the demon. “You sleep well?”

Humming his agreement, the angel stands behind Dean at the stove. He lets his hands hover over the hunter’s hips before carefully resting them there. Settling in, he places his chin on the demon’s shoulder. It’s incredibly intimate reminder of the way they woke up, and it incites some anxiety in the demon. Though he instinctively wants to reach back and push the angel away, he doesn’t. Instead, he forces himself to relax and continues scrambling the eggs.

“What do you want to do today?” he asks. “The money from that last hunt is starting to run low. I thought we could start looking for some new jobs. Now that you’re all healed up, they should be easy as pie.”

Cas breathes softly against his neck, causing a shiver to run down his spine. Dean thinks about last night and feels himself growing excited again. He selfishly hopes the angel liked his first time enough to want to do it again. If not… Well, the demon’s hand has always been a trusty companion.

“Did you see anything in the paper?” he asks.

Dean gently shakes his head. “Not today, but I’m sure we can find something on the web.”

“I will do some research.”

The sudden lack of warmth at his back is disappointing, and he can’t help glancing back a bit longingly at the angel. Well, maybe later. Cas brings Dean’s laptop to the dining room table, and he’s still researching by the time breakfast is ready. The demon makes him clear off the table, and offers him a hot cup of coffee when they sit down to eat.

“Thank you,” Cas mutters. He takes a sip, eyes fluttering closed, and when he opens them again, he grants Dean a tiny smile. “This is very good.”

“Sweet,” the demon replies. “I bought a new flavor when I was at the grocery last time. I thought you’d like it.” Dean noticed how Castiel has an affinity for sweet things. It seemed only appropriate at the time to buy French Vanilla coffee. It’s not really Dean’s thing; he prefers his black (and Irish). But it’s not awful, and it makes Cas happy, it seems, so he can’t complain.

The next week is, to be quite honest, amazing. It’s been a long time since Dean’s felt this good, and Castiel is a great companion. He doesn’t know what they should consider each other, though. After all, they’ve had sex every single night, and they act, more or less, like boyfriends. But the term seems childish and stupid, the same as ‘partners’ or ‘companions’. But it’s not like it’s important, so Dean just decides to ignore that issue.

The sex is awesome, too, and he’s not sure why. Castiel isn’t experienced, after all, and he fumbles around a lot, but it’s still… good. The angel isn’t awkward at all with his body, perfectly at ease being naked—and that’s not just in bed. He will walk around the house completely undressed until they have to go somewhere, and Dean’s definitely not upset about it. It’s even encourages Dean to be a little more lacking in his own clothes, especially when they first wake up in the morning.

But when they roll in the sheets together, Cas’ hands are gentle and tentative. He’s unsure of everything he does until he’s adequately tested it, but he doesn’t shy away if Dean gives him criticism (the demon thought “no teeth” was a pretty obvious rule for blowjobs, but apparently not). He merely adjusts and tries again. It’s not the rough kind of thing that Dean’s used to, that he _likes_ , but he’s just as happy with what they have now. It’s almost like Cas has been an opiate. Just his touch can calm Dean down, make him want to melt into the bed, and sometimes he’ll whisper things, sweet things he never knew he _could_ say, into the pillow when he thinks Castiel has fallen asleep.

Everything is like it was before, just with more sex, less fighting, and little anxiety on Dean’s part.

However, the demon has found it a bit unnerving how quiet Crowley has been. The guy hasn’t made a single move on Dean or Cas or his ( _their_ ) house since the twenty-eighth. They’ve been completely left alone, and Dean doesn’t know whether he should be concerned or satisfied.

It’s been a week, though, and Dean is at ease. He’s more at ease than he’s been in years, and he likes living with Cas more than he probably should. The afternoon sun shines in the windows and lights to illuminate the house, and Dean goes to the kitchen.

“Shit,” he mutters. He pokes his head up over the refrigerator door and yells, “Cas!”

“There’s no need to shout,” chides the angel as he sits up. “What is it?”

“Where’s the chicken?”

“What chicken?”

“For _dinner_?”

“We used it in the chili.”

Dean groans. “Who’s brilliant idea was that? We were supposed to make barbeque tonight!”

“You said that you wouldn’t eat chili that didn’t have meat, so you suggested we put chicken in it.”

 “Oh… right.” He closes the fridge and runs a hand through his hair. He was really looking forward to that. He grabs his jacket off the back of a dining chair and makes sure he’s got his keys. “I’m going to make a milk run. Do you want anything?”

“We’re out of milk as well?”

Dean shakes his head and sighs. “It’s an expression. Do you want anything from the supermarket?”

Castiel nods his head in understanding. “I… don’t think so. Oh! We’ve almost run out of toothpaste, so perhaps you should pick up some more.”

Dean leans over the back of the couch and puts his hands on the angel’s shoulders. “God, you’re boring,” he smirks before pecking him on the cheek. “I shouldn’t be long.”

“Goodbye, Dean,” Castiel says, and offers a small smile of his own as he watches the demon leave.

\+ + +

Castiel never got used to silence. It’s not that he doesn’t like it; it’s just that his whole life has been spent in noise. Those moments where he could find some solace were so few and far between  that he never had a chance to grow accustom. Always, he had the chatter of his brothers in his mind, their commands and plans of attack and updates. But ever since his second day here, that has all been gone. They cut him off.

In his life with Dean, there’s a lot of silence. Both comfortable and uncomfortable, peaceful and awkward, they seem to have shared all forms. Castiel is not used to it, but he thinks it lost its unsettling effect. He’s able to enjoy the quiet in a way that he was never able to in the past, and he’s thankful for it, especially in those early mornings where he wakes and spends just a few minutes to watch Dean sleep before drifting back himself.

He goes back to laying on the couch, watching the TV with mild interest. He never really cared for it before Dean, preferring to use his rare free time to read or travel. Even those programs that his friend calls “garbage” are interesting if only because they offer another look into the lives of the humans and demons who have time to produce such things. It’s surprising, though, that Heaven would allow such sin-soaked drivel to continue on the airwaves, but he pays it no mind. Heaven isn’t his home anymore.

A few minutes later, there’s a knocking at the door. Cas sits up quickly and goes over to it, assuming Dean has locked himself out again or forgot his wallet. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Son of a bitch, the demon was right!”

Castiel slams the door shut and reels back immediately. His heart jumped into his throat, and he can hardly breathe, fear wracking his body. The front door bursts open of its own accord (not that the angel thought that it’d actually keep him out), and the man walks in, cheeky grin on his face.

“Well, Cas. Long time, no see! I _thought_ you’d be living in a dump, but I didn’t think you’d be living with such… _trash_.” The man makes a face and shakes his head.

“Zachariah…” The name falls from his mouth, startled and broken. This has to be a bad dream. It can’t be anything else. How could he have found him? “What are you doing here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” The man glances back and the door shuts itself. “I’m here to take you home.”

The angel squints, takes in everything about the other. The clean, pressed suit. The powerful, confident stance. The emblem of Heaven on his jacket, right over his heart. The slight bulge in his sleeve where there is undoubtedly an angel blade.

He swallows. “You need to leave.”

Zachariah cocks his head and smirks. “Not without you, buddy boy.” He claps his hands to his sides and tries to look pleading. “Don’t you see what I’m doing here? This is a gift from God! I’m giving _you_ a second-chance.”

Cas looks at the finger that’s pointed at him, and his mouth turns into a snarl. “Get out,” he says, voice low.

“Or what?” Zachariah takes a daring step forward. “You’ll kill me? Look, even if you could, you don’t think I came here alone, did you? One of them’s out with that demon boy of yours right now, keeping him busy.”

Anger flashes in Castiel’s eyes and he balls his fists up at his side. “You will not touch a _hair_ on Dean Winchester’s head,” he hisses. The air crackles with electricity and the ghosts of wings appear at the angel’s back.

“Castiel… Do you _know_ what that demon had in store for you? Why he was being so kind to you? Because I do.” The words startle him, and his wings adjust behind him. “He was going to sell you to Crowley. To the _black market_ to be somebody’s bitch.”

The angel somehow manages to stumble where he stands. His former superior makes an attempt to look sympathetic, but it conveys only condescension. He swallows, his fists clench and unclench, and he takes a deep breath. “That’s not true.”

“Oh, it certainly is,” Zachariah smirks, sniffing in amusement. “He was just waiting for you to get in perfect shape to ship you off. He was offered two _million_ for you. I have to say, I think your friend got kinda gypped on that.” He begins to circle, eyeing Cas carefully. “Something got into him, though, and he decided to keep you as his own.”

“I am not a prisoner here,” Cas says fiercely, and there is pure conviction in his voice. “I am not bound here. I can go and come as I wish.”

“That doesn’t make anything that I’m saying any less true.” Zachariah stops in front of the angel and puts his hands on the man’s shoulders. “There’s only two ways for this to end, Cassy-boy, and you know it. You can either come home and try again, or you can die here, defending a guy who wants to treat you like a pet. It’s your choice.”

Blue eyes flicker to the hands on his shoulders. “Dean is a good man,” he wavers, tone unusually quiet.

“You keep telling yourself that.” The hands are gone abruptly, and Zachariah takes a step back, running a hand over his balding head. “Gosh, let me think here. Harboring a fugitive of Heaven, that’s a pretty hefty fine. I mean, if it were anyone else, it’d be life in prison. But keeping an _angel_ wanted for _treason_? I think death’s the only option a court’s going to give him.”

Castiel’s wings flare, electricity crackling between translucent feathers. “Don’t hurt him.” He tries to sound intimidating, but his voice breaks and becomes a plea. “He is no threat to you. There is no reason to hurt him.”

“There’s plenty of reason! But, if you give me some incentive…” The older angel shrugs.

Torn, Cas takes in a deep breath as he thinks. Eventually, he has to sigh and ask, “What do you want?”

“Like I said, _we_ just want you to come back home. If you do that, we’ll give you a little re-education, and if you do well enough, we might even put you back on the force. You were a good soldier, Cas. We’d like to keep you.”

“And what of Dean?”

Zachariah hums. “Well, I guess if you can guarantee your cooperation and that he’s not going to go on some psychotic rampage, then we can spare him. He’s been a great asset for eradicating all the vermin running around, but I doubt he’s going to let his new pet go very easily.” There is a beat of silence. “You’re not going to get this offer again, so I suggest you decide quickly. My smiting hand is getting twitchy.”

Castiel looks from Zachariah to the door, weighing his options. It’s not much of a choice, really. His superior is right: he and Dean have no chance of taking the angels on their own, especially not the demon. If he refuses, he’s granting them both a death sentence. He has to go.

But he also knows how stubborn Dean is, how protective. If he can help it, the hunter won’t let him leave, won’t let them simply give up.

“I will return with you,” Cas concedes, defeated, “but allow me to speak to Dean before I go. I will ensure that he has no reason to come after me.”

Zach grins. “Great!” he claps Cas on the shoulder. “You’ve got twenty minutes. We’ll be at the north exit of town. Also, don’t think about trying to fly out of here. We’ve got eyes all over.”

The sound of flapping wings and Zachariah is gone, leaving Cas with only the quiet groans of the house.

\+ + +

Dean comes home rather quickly. With a skip in his step and a bag of chicken, toothpaste, and strawberry rhubarb pie (weird combination, but it’s not like he could just pass up a pie that was on _sale_ ), he walks back inside the house.

“Cas, you won’t believe the weird shit that happened to me on the way to the store. This lady…” He stops setting the groceries on the counter to look at the angel. He’s changed from his usual clothes to his suit, repaired and fitting him well again. He even has his jacket on, the one that is still stained with blood and has Heaven’s crest over the heart. He appears solemn, and Dean starts towards him. “What happened?”

“Is it true?” he asks, sounding more vulnerable than Dean’s ever heard. “That you were going to sell me to Crowley?”

Dean feels like the floor has disappeared from beneath his feet.

“Wh-what?”

Nausea wells up inside him, and he stops several feet away and stares. No. No, fuck, _no_! How did he find out? How the fuck did he find out? He thought this was over, that this was behind them.

The angel repeats, sounding more hurt, “Did you attempt to sell me to Crowley? Don’t lie to me, Dean.”

What should he say? What should he _say_? He scrambles for words, tries to gather them up to form some kind of explanation. “O-okay, yeah, I did, but Cas, you gotta understand… I told him _no_. At the end, I told him I couldn’t do it.” He knows nothing he can say will make this better, but that doesn’t stop him from talking. “I’m a demon, and you were some random angel I found in the fucking woods! Anyone else would have done the same!”

Castiel shakes his head and looks off to the side. “Of course.”

Taking a step forward, Dean pleads, “But you’re not getting it! I changed my mind! I-I-I liked you, and I didn’t want to that you. That’s why I never put that bracelet back on you! So, that you would always have an out, so you could get away…” He reaches out tentatively, tries to put a hand on the angel’s shoulder. “Cas, I’m sorry—“

Castiel shrugs it off quickly and backs up a step. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. I’m going home.”

The demon’s eyes widen. “You’re—what?”

“I’m going home. Zachariah, the angel in charge of my garrison, has found me. He’s offered me a second chance at being a soldier.” He brushes his hands over his suit. “I’m going to go with him.”

Shaking his head, Dean tries to sort that out in his mind. “No, no, no,” he says, half-chuckling the words like this is some kind of sick joke. “You can’t tell me that you’re actually going back to _them_? They tried to kill you! What about, what about humanity? Morality? What happened to them being worse than _demons_?”

“It seems I was wrong about that,” the angel replies pointedly and returns his gaze to Dean. “I need to return to my family.”

Dean wants to break something. His fingers itch and he flexes them at his sides. “That isn’t your home anymore. _This_ is your home!” He’s started shouting. “ _This_ is where you live! This is where people care about you! I—“ He has to take a moment to turn around and take a few breaths. Fuck, he feels like he’s going to cry. He runs a hand through his hair, and when he turns around, Cas looks about as broken as Dean feels. “Please, Cas… I need you here…” He’s stopped yelling, but his voice cracks. “We can pick up and move tonight. The angels won’t be able to find us, and-and we can just live out our lives somewhere else. It’ll be great! We’ll watch Star Trek and go hunting and I’ll make you burgers every night. _Please_.”

Castiel shakes his head, “It’s foolish, Dean. We’re two totally different creatures. It has been an entertaining experimentation, but it’s time for me to go back.”

And Dean’s fucking _done_. He steps forward and grabs the angel by his trench coat, shaking him.

“You can’t leave, Cas. You _can’t_. I won’t let you!” he chokes out, trying to snarl, to sound menacing, to do anything that might make the angel stay.

He starts babbling, says everything he can think of as he shakes the other man. He can’t even hear Cas whispering his name, not until the angel grabs him by the shoulders and forcibly stops him.

Dean quiets down, face torn between anger and sorrow. Castiel takes a step back to put a few more inches of space between them. “Goodbye, Dean,” he says, looking the hunter straight in the eyes. And before Dean can let out another protest, the angel touches his forehead, and he passes out.

\+ + +

He wakes up, and when he checks the clock, an hour has passed.

“Cas?” he calls out tentatively.

He waits for a response, but nothing comes. He yells the name again, and once more he’s greeted with nothing. His search of the house feels so similar to the last time this happened that he thinks that the angel must be around here somewhere, that he just went out for groceries. So he looks and he waits and he looks and looks and looks, but no one is here and no one is coming. He waits for Cas to return, waits until the early hours of the morning, but just like he always is, he is left alone with nothing but the silent house and its ghosts.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean needs a fix, and he's going to get it anyway he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for this chapter being so short! I really want the next one to be very inclusive, and this part didn't exactly fit in with what I had in mind, so I decided to make it it's own thing. I hope you enjoy, regardless!

Dean passes out on the couch, and when he wakes up, he hopes he just imagined yesterday. But he searches the house once more, and there’s no sign of Castiel anywhere. He doesn’t yell for the angel this time, though. He keeps quiet, thinks he might hear a creaking floorboard or the scuff of a show, like this is some kind of game of hide and seek.

It’s not until lunchtime that it really sets in. He goes to the kitchen to make something, realizes that all of the food he has is designed for two mouths in mind, and he snaps.

Dean puts on his gloves, grabs the salt gun, the holy water, the iron bullets, anything that he thinks might be of help. After loading up the Impala, he tears ass across town, white-knuckling the steering wheel. Castiel wouldn’t have done this on his own, he thinks. Castiel said he was going to stay. He was the _one person_ who was going to stay.

He parks just outside of Crowley’s, and he has his sawed-off ready to go the moment he steps on solid ground. There are guards at the door, but he doesn’t give them the chance to ask questions. He shoots them, beats them down into unconsciousness, and gets inside before the hounds can get to him.

Marilyn stands up from her post, wide-eyed and shocked as she watches Dean lock the doors behind him.

“What are you doing?” she screeches.

She rounds the desk to try to block his path, but he grabs her by the throat and slams her up against the wall.

He doesn’t say anything. He watches tears well up in her eyes, imagines the process her body is going through: the constriction of blood vessels, the obstruction of the airway, lungs straining, stuttering to get oxygen into the blood. She claws at his hands, tries to kick out, but he pins her hard against the wall. His fingers get a familiar itch.

The chiding voice of an angel enters his head. He tightens his fingers, watches the woman’s face turn a tint of blue and gray, then lets go. She falls gracelessly to the ground and paws at her neck. It’s speckled with bright red marks now, which are quickly bruising. He takes only a moment to look at her.

But then he’s off to Crowley’s office, reloading his sawed-off as he goes. His blood is boiling, the itch is stretching out to the rest of his body, and if anybody is getting it, it’s Crowley.

The room is empty. Taking a few more steps inside, he glances around, wondering where the demon could be. After all, he’s rarely out, especially in the middle of the day. He can hear screaming, people running up and down the hall, and he turns to face them. Two of the  guy’s lackeys are approaching, and Dean thinks he can hear the hounds running up as well. He fires at the demons, causing one to scream and fall, nails scratching away at burning flesh.

Dean drops the first gun, grabs his pistol and is ready to fire when it feels like his shoulder is on fire. He collapses to the ground with a yelp, and then he realizes that a hellhound sneaked up on him and is using him as a chew-toy. He raises his gun, aiming to shoot, but the guards have already gotten there, and they hold him down, restrain him as he bucks and screams at them.

They beat him, eventually subdue him, and he’s left bleeding and curled in pain on the polished hardwood floor. He’s not sure how long it takes the King of the Crossroads to show up, but the pain makes it feel like forever. He looks through one swollen eye to glare up at Crowley, his hands balled into fists behind his back.

Dean spits the blood from his mouth at the demon’s shoes. “What did you do?” he hisses.

Amused, Crowley raises his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. _What did you do_?”

He knows he’s not intimidating like this, but that doesn’t stop Dean from trying. Because he has to know, he _has_ to figure this out, because there’s no way Castiel made this decision on his own. He _couldn’t_ have. There has to be a catch.

Crowley glances up to the others in the room. “Why don’t you leave us? I believe I can take care of him by myself. Do whatever you need to fix up anyone who’s hurt.”

They nod and leave, the door closing behind them. Dean manages to sit up and kicks back until he can lean against the desk. His breathing is heavy and shallow. Waiting for an answer, he continues to stare at Crowley.

“I’m not a moron, you know,” the demon says, putting his hands in his pockets. “I knew you’d come. You’re lucky that you didn’t kill anybody. Pressing legal charges is always so… _tedious_.” He shrugs. “But, you should know, I, myself, didn’t do anything.” He makes a face. “ _Well_ , there might have been a little bird that tipped off the God Squad concerning the whereabouts of their missing flock. But that’s all.”

Dean’s seeing red. “I’ll kill you, Crowley. I’ll fucking kill you,” his mouth snarls around the world, face contorted in pure rage because it’s _his fault_. It’s _Crowley’s fucking fault_.

Dean wriggles around in his spot a bit, but finds himself unable to move for the most part. Everything hurts so much, and there’s a different pain in his chest when he realizes that there’s no angel at home to help him. He’s back to being alone again.

“Tell me, if you’re asking me what I did… Why are you here? I assumed it would’ve been obvious if the angels just burst into your home and killed the thing right there.”

Shocked, Dean silently opens mouth. The idea that Crowley didn’t know the exact details of what went down had never even crossed his mind. He thinks about not answering. He thinks about just spitting in the demon’s face. But he can’t. He just has to say the words, “Cas isn’t dead… He left with them.”

“Oh.” Crowley looks surprised, but only mildly intrigued. “They’re going to kill him in Heaven, then?”

“No!” the hunter snaps. He doesn’t know why he feels such a need to defend Cas, but for some reason, he can’t let the claim of the angel having left only to be killed, away from Dean, permeate the room. “No, he… He said they were giving him a second chance.”

It hurts to speak the truth, but that’s what it is, isn’t it? And it’s because of Crowley; it’s all because of this snot-nosed, arrogant, piece of shit that Cas is gone, and Dean can’t do one damn thing about it.

“Well, _interesting_ ,” the demons nods. “I can’t say I was expecting that. Angels aren’t really ones for second-chances, I’ve found. Still… That’s very interesting.”

Dean spits back, “No, it’s not fucking _interesting_. Cas is gone because of _you_! If you hadn’t gone and ratted him out, he’d still be here!”

A smile passes over Crowley’s lips, and he gives the Winchester a pitying look, like he’s looking down on a child. “So, he had no choice in his own leaving?”

“I—“

“If he had really wanted to stay with you, don’t you think he would have? If he truly cared that much for your company, he would have fought tooth and nail for it. But he left you, because angels don’t _belong_ here. What reason could he possibly have had for staying?” Crowley huffs a brief laugh, smug as he shakes his head. “I told you he’d get bored of you soon enough. It may be my fault that the angels found him, but he’s the one that chose to go along. That’s all him.”

And Dean can’t respond, because how can he deny any of that? That explanation, it makes more sense than anything else he came up with on his own. Castiel left, not because anyone made him, but because he _chose_ to leave. He wanted to leave. He didn’t want to be here with Dean (because Dean’s not good enough). He didn’t want to stay (because what here is worth staying for?). He left (because Dean is and always has been second to everyone).

“Tell you what, Winchester. Instead of pressing serious charges, I’m going to request a restraining order. In return, you never show up around these parts again, and we just go on living like the other doesn’t exist. You can do your black market shopping elsewhere. Do we have a deal?”

\+ + +

Seven days later, Dean gets a letter in the mail that says he legally cannot come within a hundred yards of Crowley or his property. But that’s not what he cares about.

What he cares about is that it’s been seven days since he has seen Castiel.

He tries to convince himself that Castiel is going to come back. He’s going to say, “It was just a ploy to lure them away” or something equally pretentious. Then they’ll laugh and return to what they’ve been doing for over the last month, watching shitty television and eating good food. It will be great, and Dean will tell him not pull a stupid stunt like that again.

By the second week, he gives up on that notion. As much as he hates to admit it, he’s starting to think that Crowley is right. Castiel left of his own accord. Cas left because his family is more important than Dean, and how can the demon blame him for that?

Still, it doesn’t make him feel any better. In fact, he only feels worse. He goes on hunts by himself, he eats by himself, and he doesn’t do much else (although he picks up drinking binges again). He tries to pick someone up, but he can’t find it in him to do much more than talk, let alone get it up.

Dean wakes up one day to a bad itch. He can’t remember the last time it was so intense. It feels like something is crawling under his skin, aching to get out. It’s familiar, and he tries to put it off, to ignore it, and definitely _not_ because he knows Castiel would disapprove.

Three days later, he can’t take it. He gets in the Impala, and he makes it to West Virginia in thirteen hours, which has to be a new record. He knows that he probably should have called ahead but can’t find it in him to care. It’s not like the anyone else will.

Stepping on to the estate again is nostalgic. He remembers the first time he was here… What was it? Nearly ten years? It must be. There’s a familiar tremor that runs up his spine as he parks the Impala in the roundabout just in front of the entrance. He’s not exactly excited to be here, but he needs a fix, and if there’s anywhere he can get it, it’s this place.

As he knocks on the door, he immediately can hear the nagging voice of the angel in his head. He pushes it away, a quiet voice reminding him that that is why he’s come. Cas isn’t here anymore, after all. He shouldn’t be able to influence what the demon does.

“Hello, how can I—“ A young man answers the door, and the two simultaneously start to smile as soon as they lock eyes. “Dean? Ha, Dean Winchester! And here I thought you’d never come around again!”

“Nice to see you, too, Kyle.” He remembers when the two of them went to school together all those years ago. Dean was just about to finish his lessons, and Kyle was coming in as a new student. The older demon had helped him learn, and now that he thinks about it, the whole thing was pretty fucked up. Then again, what about this wasn’t? “Is the big man home?”

“Yeah, yeah, he is,” Kyle nods, and lets Dean enter. “Does he know you’re coming?”

Dean chuckles. “No, it was kind of, uh… Spur of the moment.”

“A sixteen-hour drive was spur of the moment?”

Dean shrugs it off with a breathy laugh, and his friend starts to lead him through the building.

It’s just as spacious as he remembers, though with more students, it seems. All demons somewhere in their young adult lives. He can see the scars on some of them, newly healing bruises, and it reminds him of his own early days. It had taken him a long time to settle in, but when he did, well… He was top of his class.

There is no official name for this school. It isn’t even officially a _school_. Just a place where demons go if they want to learn more about the finer arts of interrogation and torture. Those pursuing careers with the military (grunt work, the frontlines for the angel, but you can make a living while there’s peace) or police. No finer place exists in America.

“I’m pretty sure he’s in the middle of a session, but we can go down if you want,” Kyle offers.

Dean flexes his fingers and nods.

He’s led into the basement, and the moment the door to the stairs open, he’s hit with the scent of sulfur and blood. The screams and moans echo in Dean’s ears, and already his heart is pumping faster. They descend, walk down a hallway lined with small cells, each with some poor soul banging on the bars or lying curled, half-dead in the corner. A few even have students in them, practicing what they’ve learned.

Alastair is in the last room, standing next to a table where a creature is strapped to the table. It’s surrounded by sheddings of its own flesh, though it’s hard to tell if it’s from shapeshifting or something that the demon has done. The man (Hell’s Grand Inquisitor, as he’s more popularly known) wears a blood-stained apron, and he uses a small knife to point to different parts of the splayed-out creature.

“Now, would anyone like to volunteer to demonstrate how to properly remove the liver?”

Dean shivers. Even after all these years, that’s one thing that hasn’t changed. That voice will always give him chills, he thinks. It will always incite fear. Though Alastair looks older, thinner, grayer, his voice remains the same: calm, collected, and sharp as his knife.

Someone raises their hand, confident. Dean can’t see who it is over the heads of the others, but when the volunteer approaches the table, he’s surprised. It’s just a kid. Probably the youngest person he’s ever seen in Alastair’s care, can’t be a day over ten years old. Alastair smiles and gestures to the cart of tools next to him, and she takes a careful inventory before grabbing a scalpel.

She’s not what Dean would expect: young, blonde, even wearing a freaking pink dress. But the glee on her face as she digs into the screaming shapeshifter leaves no question about why she’s here. Alastair only accepts the best.

A few minutes later, there’s a liver in a white tray on the cart, and the shapeshifter has passed out. Alastair takes a moment to inspect her work, then gives her a nod.

“Who can tell me how long our friend here has to live now?” he purrs.

One of the older students raises his hand and says, “Twenty-four hours at most, but it’ll probably bleed out first.”

“Correct.” Alastair turns to the girl. “Excellent work, Lilith. If we were to cauterize the flesh and stop the bleeding, there would be a build-up of toxins, and it would be dead within a day. Though it’s unconscious now, you could always put a shot of adrenaline straight to the heart to wake it back up again. A wonderful way to begin and continue an interrogation.” He licks his lips and looks at Dean. “I believe that’s enough for today. Everyone should spend some time studying; you have plenty of specimens to choose from.”

The students begin to disperse, and Alastair has a quick word with Lilith before letting her go. Kyle looks up at Dean and pats him on the shoulder before leaving, as well. As the head demon comes forward, the hunter ducks his head slightly and bows his shoulders.

“Dean Winchester… And I thought I’d never see you again.”

He nods his head. “Alastair.”

“So, tell me, to what do I do the honor?”

Dean takes a deep breath. He never knew how this kind of thing could stay in business, but no one ever questioned Alastair. Dean has always had a suspicion that these kinds of places are sponsored by angels. A way to make demons even more terrifying, to put proper interrogators, killers and torturers into the world to scare humans into submission and to exterminate the other monsters. Nearly anyone will sell their skills even to their worst enemy for the right price.

“I was hoping for a refresher,” he says, trying to force some kind of smile. “I don’t… I don’t have much money right now, but I could pay it off in work. Help keep the place clean, go out and bring monsters in for classes.”

Alastair looks at him strangely, head cocking to the side just slightly as he takes another step closer.

“I always said what a shame it was that Dean Winchester preferred hunting over the art of the knife,” he muses. “My best student, and you use your talents for hobbies. Why are you so keen to get back into it now?”

It feels like Alastair can see right through him, with his eyes so alike to Castiel’s but so much darker. That’s how it’s always been. The older demon always had ways of taking Dean apart. And now it’s like he is seeing everything: the last month and a half, Cas, Dean’s… weird feelings. All the happiness, the confusion, the pain.

And Dean’s here because he doesn’t want to _feel_ that anymore, and he can’t stand being in that godforsaken house one more night. He can’t take one more night alone, thinking of all the ways he has failed, all the _people_ he has failed. He _can’t_.

“I just need a break from… stuff. And I thought I could use a refresher,” he replies.

Alastair smiles. “Well, you came to the right place. I’m sure we can find a way for you to be useful.”

By the time Dean settles into a bed that night, Alastair already has a job lined up for him. If he’ll aid Alastair with a few lessons, shows off his own tricks, and if he helps round up some healthy specimens every few weeks, he can stay until the end of the year. And that’s all Dean wants, because he’s sick of seeing bright blue eyes and feathers when he closes his eyes. He’s sick of hearing Castiel warn him about this is a “dangerous path.” He’s sick of everything, and he just needs some time to forget.

Hopefully, that’s what this place can offer.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's getting along without Cas as best he can, but it's harder than he thought it would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry this chapter is so late! I moved back home for Spring Break, and it was my mom's birthday yesterday, so I didn't have time to edit the chapter. But here it is! Sorry for the wait!

The first day on the job, Dean starts to cut into a Djinn. Just as he begins to enjoy himself, he can hear Castiel in his head. He can see the disappointment on the angel’s face, and all of a sudden he’s completely devoid of enjoyment. He can’t revel in this anymore. With a flick of his knife, he kills her and tells himself it’s not out of mercy.

The students are wary of him at first. He thinks they’ve heard stories. While everyone here is a pupil of Alastair, few have ever been at the level that Dean was, and none have surpassed him in dexterity, creativity, cruelty. They start to warm up to him, though, once they see what he has to offer.

Because he _is_ creative. Incredibly so. And sometimes when he’s showing off, teaching the kids something knew, he pretends that there are feathers at his feet and some hotshot angel on his table that he’s digging into, blue light shining from their wounds.

Things go well, and Dean starts to find that he can go longer and longer without thinking about Cas. Sometimes, there are _weeks_ where he can go without a single thought of the man. But then there are other times where something triggers it, mundane things like birds or a brisk wind, and it’ll take days before Dean is up for torturing again.

It feels _good_ to be doing it again, though. He feels in his element. For a brief moment, he doesn’t need to think about his worthlessness, his selfishness, or the dead that haunt his dreams. He can etch his pain onto someone else’s body, scar them with his own trauma and pretend that it doesn’t belong to him.

Dean avoids the empty cells in the basement for the longest time. He knows what goes on in there, and he doesn’t want to see it, doesn’t want to revisit the days and months he spent in that very same spot. It’s where kids like him, kids who were hard to _warm up_ , who didn’t want to play like the others, are sent.

But after months and months have passed, he can’t help himself. A student asks him to watch over her while she practices, and he agrees. He thinks maybe things aren’t as bad nowadays. He thinks maybe he made it worse in his mind, but he hasn’t.

It’s just as bad as he remembers.

His heart physically aches for the boy strapped to the table. Rarely is anyone sent here, but only the best are offered a chance to practice in these rooms. It’s the ultimate privilege (and taboo) to get to practice on another demon. The students like to make a game out of it: who can be the one to make the Outcast beg first?

The victims are sent here, because they never wanted to be here in the first place. They don’t _want_ to torture others, and isn’t that just the strangest anomaly among demons?

So you cut them open, you hurt them, you make them bleed until they scream, “ _Yes_ , _yes,_ I’ll do it.”

Dean had been one of them. Perhaps that’s why he became such a story: Outcast Turned Inquisitor Extraordinaire!

The boy strapped to the table is young, perhaps sixteen. He’s naked, and nothing is left to the imagination. He’s completely free of any blemishes, but Dean knows that won’t last long. It’s taxing to perform the kind of magic Alastair does to heal the Outcasts, but the outcome is well-worth it. Outcasts always turn into the greatest torturers.

The girl starts into the kid without mercy, nonchalant as she slices through flesh and muscle. Dean tries not to get upset about it. He tries to be professional, but it’s hard, especially as the victim lays there and scream and begs for release, but he never says those three magic words that can get him out.

Ignoring him, Dean instructs his student on the more subtle nuances of this art. He shows her how to hold the knife, the pliers, the buzz saw, how much pressure to use, what angle to go in at. All the while, he pretends that he can’t hear the young demon begging and crying, reduced to a whimpering, bleeding mess.

The student runs her hands over the Outcast’s belly, pressing at the soft flesh, before pushing in. Her fingers sink deep beneath the flesh, into the organs, and when she pulls out her hand, she has intestines in her grasp, slick with blood. Her victim stares at it for a moment (he only has one eye, however, the other having been reduced to a scrambled mess in the socket), and he passes out shortly after. The girl doesn’t seem to mind, though. She smiles, lifts up the small intestine, and puts it around her neck like a scarf.

“What do you think?” she smirks, putting her hands up as if she’s modeling. “Is it too _risqué_?”

And Dean sees red. He balls his fists up at his side, body shaking, and he can’t take his eyes off of her. “Put it back,” he hisses.

“What? He’ll be okay. I do this all the time. He can last an hour like this before he gets into any _real_ —“

“I said _put it the fuck back_!” Dean yells.

She jumps, eyes widening with surprise, and she hurries to shove the intestine back into the nameless demon’s body.

“I-I’m sorry, but what—?”

Dean shakes his head, and he has to look away. “Leave. Clean up and go. I’ll take care of him,” he says, a bit more composed, but still obviously brimming with rage. She opens her mouth like she’s about to ask a question, but Dean shoots her a fierce look that makes her recoil and scurry out.

He’s only worked this magic a few times, but that doesn’t matter. All the ingredients he needs for the spell are right here. After putting them together, he works it as fast as he can, hoping to leave as soon as possible. It takes an hour and most of his energy, but the teenager recovers, his body repairs, and then there’s not a trace of abuse on him. It’s like his personal hell never happened at all.

Dean sits on a stool near the door to take a breather, feeling light-headed, and he doesn’t look up until he hears the Outcast start to rouse. The hunter stands and takes a moment to pace while the boy looks himself up and down as best he can before he starts to whimper.

The older demon is swift. He comes down on the Outcast quickly, slamming a hand down next to the teen’s head. He gets in close, snarling inches from his face.

“Now, you listen up, and you listen good, okay?” he hisses, lips curling around the words. “Tomorrow, when one of them comes down to get you, you’re going to tell them ‘ _I’ll do it_.’ Do you hear me?” He’s so close, their foreheads almost touching, and the Outcast snivels again. “I’ve been where you are, kid, and you’ll say ‘yes’ eventually. _Everyone_ does, and you’re going to get nothing out of denying it. You’re not a hero. You’re not different than any of them, so don’t try to pretend you are. You’re nothing, nothing but a _demon_ , and you can’t escape this. So, I would _strongly_ suggest that you say ‘yes’ to them tomorrow.”

The kid doesn’t reply, just stares up at him with round, wide eyes and watches Dean leave.

Nine days later, he sees the Outcast as a student in his class. _Took him long enough._

His time at the school is mundane and passes without real incident. Dean’s thankful for that, really. Torturing is like a drug, and it allows him to forget about everything, if only for a few hours. Days roll into weeks roll into months.

It’s not until month eleven that he walks in on two students. He’d been hoping for a private session, to get to cut something open all by himself, but he’s stopped dead in his tracks, and _god_ , would it be so much better if they were just having sex.

But no. One of them is strapped down, and the other is cutting her open like a pig. They’re not just practicing on the Outcasts or the monsters anymore. They’re practicing on _each other_.

And, _boy_ , does that hit too close to home.

He shoos them out, tells them not to do it again, and Alastair approaches him later that day to remind him that practice is perfectly acceptable, even encouraged.

“You remember that part of your education, don’t you?”

And of course he does, but he couldn’t just stand there and watch them do it.

It sticks in his head for a long time. Two months later, when he tells himself he’s leaving because it’s finally time to go back home, he knows that that is secretly a big part of it. Kids shouldn’t be cutting each other up for fun or for practice or for anything.

He thinks he’s grown soft.

Alastair is sad to see him go (well, as sad as someone like him _can_ be). Some of the students even seem a bit sentimental, as well. The head demon offers to help him find a _proper_ job, if Dean would like the recommendation, but it’s declined. Hunting is what Dean’s good at, and with everyone else dead, it’d be a disgrace for him not to carry out the final years of the family business.

When he drives into Lawrence for the first time in over a year, it’s weird. Things feel like they’ve changed, but he can’t tell if they really have or it’s just him that’s different. Either way, it’s not like it matters. As long as he can still get hunts, he doesn’t care what happens to Lawrence.

Arriving at his house, he’s only mildly surprised to find it in its current shape. There’s a busted window, graffiti on the side wall, and empty bottles of alcohol in the yard. When he goes inside, however, he finds it mostly intact with the exception of the broken glass. Seems his warding magic has managed to hold up this long. Dean’s actually a bit proud.

He cleans up and decides to close off what was once Castiel’s, and his brother’s, room. He doesn’t ever want to have to even look inside again, so he tries to make it as inconspicuous as possible. It works, for the most part.

People are surprised to see him back in town, but no one asks him where he was, especially after the looks he gives them when they try to approach the subject. He wonders if they can sense something is off about him, if they can just sense what he’s done, been doing, seen.

He sees Meg a few days after moving back in at a convenience store. Slipping him a smile, she saunters over. He can feel his fingers itch.

“Long time, no see, Winchester. Where’s that pretty boy of yours? Jimmy?” she purrs, and her voice is perhaps the one thing in all of Lawrence that Dean could have gone without hearing again. He doesn’t say anything, just sets his jaw and tries not to strike out. It causes her grin to widen. “Ah, I see. Bad break-up, hm? Is that why you’re back in town? Meetin’ his folks didn’t go over so well?”

He pushes past her and exits the building, dropping his small basket of things to the ground. A jar busts open, and things go flying across the ground, but he doesn’t care. He knows that if he doesn’t leave right now, he’ll hurt her (or worse), and as much as he’d like to, he knows he’s still on thin ice with the police here after the Crowley incident (Crowley, apparently, isn’t around anymore; rumor is he got threatened out of the city, but Dean highly doubts that). She doesn’t follow him, thankfully, and Dean makes a note to avoid her in the future.

Unfortunately, the damage has been done. The moment he gets home, Dean bursts into a rage, because all he can think about is that _goddamn_ angel, and it all hurts so bad. It’s been a year, _more_ than a year, but the memory is still fresh and vibrant and hurts like hell and Dean feels like utter _shit_ because he’s not worth anything to anybody and he wants to break someone’s bones and flay off their skin and smash in their skull, so he leaves his house, goes out into the woods, tries to find at least one fucking monster, but ends up with nothing but a damn raccoon that he catches and breaks and rips apart but it only makes him feel worse because what would Cas say about him right now?

Dean takes what’s left of the animal home, decides that it’s not in such awful condition that he can’t tan and sell the hide. His anger has whittled down into resignation, and he hunches his shoulders against the cold on the way back to the house.

Thirteen months later, and that shit angel still has a way of getting inside of his head. Dean’s lucky that the pelt is pretty salvageable, as the tanning process allows a distraction for a few hours. It’s actually pleasantly nostalgic, too. He remembers doing this with his dad in the years following Mary’s death. Usually, his father was drunk or angry or both, but after a real, proper hunt—one that involved _animals_ and not _monsters_ , they would spend hours skinning and tanning whatever they managed to catch. Sometimes the people who came knocking at their door were just looking for some venison, not offering a hunt.

Dean thinks it was how Dad cooled down. It was how he relaxed, by going out and killing things that couldn’t look you in the eye and scream or beg. It was more peaceful, less violent. It took a long time for Dean to start hunting animals, though. Monsters? No problem. But an animal never deserved to be killed. Even now, he feels a bit of remorse for how brutally he destroyed the raccoon, but it’s too late to do anything about that now.

After doing all the proper soaking, he gets the stretcher from the attic and sets it up outside with the skin.

When he goes back inside, he finds that he’s once again left alone with nothing to do, and he wonders if Cas will ever get out of his head for good.

\+ + +

Dean gets back into the rhythm of his life after awhile. Weeks pass, and he finds himself getting jobs, getting paid, even associating with some of his more-than-acquaintances. He has bad days, but he has good ones just as often.

While at a bar, one of the guys reveals that they’re supposed to receive a garrison of Heaven’s Guard soon. They’ve reaches the proper population threshold or something, and a small group of angels will supposedly be coming to keep watch. The other say it’s bullshit, that Lawrence isn’t _that_ big, and Dean doesn’t believe it either. That doesn’t stop the idea from plaguing his thoughts, though.

He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to handle having angels here twenty-seven, patrolling the city and whatnot. It’d be a constant reminder of what he’s lost, and he definitely doesn’t want that, not when he’s been doing so good for so long.

But three days later, it’s announced on the local news that they will, indeed, be receiving a small troop from Heaven “to watch over our city and keep our streets safe.”

What a load of bullshit.

\+ + +

Dean’s on a hunt when the angels come to town. There’s a line of cars leading into the Lawrence city limits, and he has to wait forever before he gets to the front, where angels are asking questions of every driver.

“Name?”

Wow, this guy’s a peach. Dean squints at him through the open window of the Impala, trying to assess him. It’s definitely an angel. There’s energy wafting off this guy’s skin, permeating the air like a warning that Dean should not try to cross him. Heaven’s seal is on his jacket just over his heart, just like Cas’.

“Dean Winchester,” he grunts.

“Business?”

Dean really doesn’t like this guy’s attitude or his stupid bald head. He just wants to go home.

“Trying to get back to my house.”

“Where are you coming from?”

The hunter sighs. “Peoria. Now can I go?”

The angel frowns, brows furrowing together. “I’d have a bit more respect if I were you,” he says, voice low and dangerous, but the gate opens (since when did they get a fucking gate into the city?), and he’s allowed to pass.

He heads for the bar first, skin tingling after the interaction. He feels weird— _gross_ weird—after passing into town, and he wonders if it’s because of the concentration of angels.

He walks into the Devil’s Keep tavern, and Dean watches two dozen pairs of eyes turn to stare at him. The din of the establishment dies down as he walks towards his usual spot at the bar, but no one moves.

“You guys got a problem?” he asks, genuinely concerned. “I can understand if you can’t stand my rugged handsomeness, but this is a bit much.”

“Dean,” one of the guys two stools over chirps up. His name is Jake, the hunter is pretty sure. “Did you know?”

“Know what?”

“About Jimmy?”

He’s taken completely off guard, and he has to lean back slightly to gather himself. “Wh— _what_?”

“Did you know about Jimmy?” the bartender says, jumping in. “That he was an angel?”

Where did this come from? Had Dean just walked into a nightmare or something?

“Woah, woah, woah. Hold up,” he sighs, raising both his hands. “I’m lost. I’ve been out of the city hunting for the past five days. Someone wanna back it the hell up and tell me what’s going on?” _How do you know about Cas?_

“A group of angels has been stationed in the city,” Jake says. “Jimmy—or _Castiel_ , apparently—is helping them. I mean, no one’s seen his wings or anything, but we’re all pretty sure—“

It feels like time has stopped. His heart, his lungs, his brain, they’re trying to do everything and nothing at once, completely taken aback at this news.

He manages to breathe out a quiet “ _What_?”

“So he didn’t know,” a girl muses from a table behind him. He can barely hear her whisper to somebody, “You owe me twenty-five bucks.”

“Wh-where? Where is he?” Dean stands, looks at everyone in an attempt to find an answer.

“He’s just a street soldier,” Jake says, somewhat guarded. “Patrols Mason. Dude, are you okay?”

Dean’s out before he can even process the information. His brain has turned off, and he can’t control his body as it directs him towards the Mason area. Numbness is all that he can feel, unable to form a single thought. But his legs are stead and his feet carry him safely. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do or say, or why he’s going at all, but part of him won’t let him go without seeing this for himself.

It takes hours combing the area to find him. Castiel, in a clean suit and tie, familiar trench coat around his tense shoulders, standing watch over Vine Street. Dean slows to a halt and stands back to watch the angel. He looks so different. Tired, with hard lines on his face, furrowed brow, a frown. He looks hardened and nothing like Dean remembers.

Blue eyes turn just slightly, and the two are suddenly staring at each other. Dean forgets how to breathe and experiences a messed-up ball of emotion that he doesn’t know what to do with. Is he angry? Happy? Relieved? Upset? He honestly doesn’t know. But the moment he takes a step forward, Castiel turns away pointedly, and then he knows exactly how he’s feeling.

“ _Castiel_!” Dean’s voice is sharp and bites through the low clamor of the street. Some of the people milling about stop to stare at him, but he pays them no heed as he stomps straight towards the angel. The man must have heard him, but he seems to be ignoring him, not even flinching. It only serves to make the demon angrier, and he grabs Cas by the shoulder once he’s close. “Hey, you—“

Then there’s pain in his wrist as it’s twisted behind his back. Crying out in surprise, Dean struggles to get released and is then pushed away. He stumbles away, and when he regains his balance, he turns to see the angel glaring. It’s just on the cusp of familiarity, but there’s something changed, darker, and Dean should be scared to confront it, but he’s too fucking upset.

“Keep a respectable distance, and do not touch me again.”

God, has it been a long time since Dean’s heard that voice. It’s the same low rumble, like the roll of thunder, but he’s never heard it so cold, never seen the angel’s lip curl up like he’s about to snarl.

Castiel goes on, “What is your query, citizen?”

And then it’s like the wind has been knocked out of Dean, his anger completely erased. It’s all so different, so cold, so _not_ Cas that the hunter feels simultaneously upset and hopeful. He wonders, for a moment, if his former captivepartnerfriendlover even remembers him, and though that would tear him up inside, that would mean that maybe Dean was right. The angels _did_ do something to Cas, because _his_ angel never would have left on his own! Right? Maybe he didn’t want to leave, but the Holy Host fucked him up somehow.

But now Dean’s not sure what to say, and he’s left silent with a gaping mouth.

“If you have nothing, then I suggest you leave,” Castiel says, and he turns away to watch the street again.

The demon starts shaking his head. “No… No way. Cas, _you know  me_. Where have you been? What happened?” The angel doesn’t answer, so he grabs him again. “ _Cas_.”

The man turns and shoves him away again, anger faintly visible on his face. “ _Leave_.”

Dean snorts. “Oh, hell no. Not until I get some goddamn answers.”

Everyone is staring at them, and Cas turns his head to look around for a moment.  “Dean, you need to leave right now,” he threatens quietly. “I won’t tell you again.”

So Cas _does_ remember him. That shouldn’t be as much of a relief as it is.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

They glower at each other, trapped in a battle of wills.

“If you don’t leave, I’ll be forced to arrest you for disturbance of duty.”

“Then _do it_.”

Dean’s starting to get angry again, which really seems to be just a constant state of being these days, his fists clenched at his sides, and they continue to glare at each other, neither wishing to back down. But then Cas’ face relaxes, and he grabs Dean hard by shoulder.

“Fine.”

It feels like his insides are being twisted and wrung, and everything is thrown off-balance, but it’s only for a split second, a single moment in time. Now they’re somewhere else, Dean’s _house_ , and the demon is thrown backwards, cast away from the angel like some kind of filth.

Dean manages to regain his footing, but as soon as he does, he starts walking towards the angel. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Cas sighs, his shoulders sagging slightly, but his face remains impassive. “Heaven stationed me here. I am here to do their work.”

Dean snorts and shakes his head. “Really? They just _happened_ to send you back to the place they found you after you ran off for shits and giggles? They thought that was a good idea, did they?”

Closing his eyes, the angel attempts to compose himself before he answers. “No, they did not. But I thought it would be an excellent show of where my loyalties truly lie.”

“And I’m guessing that’s not with me, huh?” Dean pulls his lips into a grim smile and shakes his head.

“No. It’s not.”

The demon crosses his arms over his chest, glancing at the ground for a moment as he boils inside. “Well, long time no see. Having fun in Tinsel Town, then? How much did you have to beg them to let you go home, anyway? Bet you’ve been jumping through their hoops like a good little bitch this last year. Still got your ‘morals’, or did you give those up along with your dignity?”

He wonders if he can evoke a response. He’d love to. He’d love to see Castiel get angry again, to see his wings again, even if it’s a threat of violence. But the angel is measured, and the only change in him is the tenseness of his shoulders.

“I’m leaving,” he says, but Dean’s able to grab him before he can go, hold him in this spot.

“Like hell you aren’t,” the demon hisses. “I think I deserve some goddamn answers, after all.”

“And what _questions_ would you like answered, Dean?” the angel snaps, and Dean’s so glad for the break in his stoic act.

After releasing the angel, he takes a step back and puts his hands in the air. “We were friends, right? So, let’s sit down, act like friends. _Catch up_. You want a drink? Or do they still not let you do that?”

Castiel doesn’t answer, but he does sit down the couch. It’s like they’re back to day one, with the angel sitting pin-straight, not allowing himself to relax for even a moment as the demon gets himself a beer. He takes his time popping off the cap and returning to the living room, where he chooses to sit on the coffee table rather than with Cas on the couch.

“So, should you go first or should I?” he asks before taking a drink. “I’d _love_ to hear what you’ve been doing.”

Cas sighs slightly and rolls his shoulders. “It was exactly as I told you that day. I was offered a second-chance to be at home with my family, and I took it. I attended training, was better educated, and returned to being a soldier. Zachariah wanted to test my faithfulness, and I thought it would be best for me to return here to see how far I’ve come and how far I fell.” Cas looks Dean dead in the eye. “It seems I forgot just how depraved I once was.”

Dean bristles with the knowledge that it’s an insult meant just for him. “So, they sent you back to Bible Camp for some reeducation because you refused to kill some people? Sounds good and healthy to me.”

“And you would know so much about what it means to be ‘healthy’?”

The hunter thinks maybe Castiel became more of a smartass while he was away.

He takes another drink and licks his lips. “Well, let me tell you what _I’ve_ been doing,” he smirks. “After you left, I just had a fucking _heyday_. Decided to go east and visit Alastair.” He sees the angel’s face break out of its angry mold just slightly. “Spent about a year there, teaching kids how to cut open monsters, how to drag out interrogations for weeks. Forgot how much fun it was.” His words are empty, because he can’t even pretend that he was truly enjoying himself, not when he would always be saddled with guilt after every lesson despite the pleasure garnered in the moment. “Shoulda been there.”

Neither of them say anything for a long time. The silence is nearly familiar, the kind that Dean had been wishing for months. It might be tense, but it’s better than nothing. It’s hard to believe that he missed this, though.

“You got nothing to say about that?” he asks, trying to egg the other on, but Cas shakes his head.

“Nothing.”

“Hmph.”

Dean finishes his beer in one go. “I gotta say, you really helped put things in perspective. I mean, I was starting to think there for a moment that you actually gave a shit about me, so thanks for putting me in my place.”

For a moment, Cas looks off to the side, and Dean knows he’s struck a nerve. _Good_.

“Why are you and your band of Merry Men here, anyway?” the demon asks. “Because I sure as hell know we aren’t big enough to get Heaven’s attention for a personal guard.”

“That is classified information.”

Dean sniffs. “Can’t even give me a hint?” The angel doesn’t answer. “Huh. You’ve really changed, you know.”

“For the better,” Cas replies firmly.

“No, actually. Definitely not for the better.”

The angel is quiet for a few moments, then returns his gaze to his former friend. “I have to return to my post.”

And just like that, he’s gone, and Dean feels like shit all over again.

\+ + +

Dean avoids the Mason area like the plague. Actually, he avoids leaving his place at all. Every time he does, someone is hounding him, asking if he knew that Jimmy was an angel, if he knows why the angels are here, if he can get them some kind of special privilege for one thing or another. It’s fucking obnoxious.

He spends a lot of time decidedly not thinking about any of it, though. He just works on finding cases, though he’s admittedly not doing very well. Part of him wants to stay, honestly, at least for now. Just while the angels are here, doing whatever it is angels do. He knows he shouldn’t give a damn, but it’s hard, and he just keeps replaying his and Cas’ conversation over and over in his head, trying to analyze every detail.

Castiel has changed. He’s changed a _lot_ , and Dean wonders if his reeducation really _was_ some kind of Orwellian brainwashing. Every time he thinks that, though, another part of him argues that he’s being stupidly optimistic. The reality of it is Cas doesn’t, didn’t, never cared, and now he’s back with “his” people. That’s it.

One night, Dean wakes up later to the angel standing over his bed.

“Son of bitch!” he cries, and he’s about to lash out and attack when Castiel puts a hand on his chest and holds him down.

“I’m not here to hurt you, Dean.”

The angel doesn’t let go until the hunter stops fighting. Once the demon has calmed, he backs up to give the other room to sit up.

“Dude, what the fuck are you doing in here?” Dean snaps, being at least modest enough to cover up his exposed crotch (not that the angel hasn’t been _more_ than acquainted with it in the past).

Cas’ voice is dark and completely serious when he says, “You need to leave town. Immediately. Gather your things, I can escort you.”

Dean’s way too tired for this, and he shakes his head. “Woah, dude, slow down. What are you even talking about?”

“We’re going to raze the city. You need to leave.”

That sobers him up quick. The two stare openly at each other, and Dean can see the concern, the sincerity written all over the angel’s face.

“You’re not serious?”

“Deadly,” the angel deadpans. “I don’t have much time. I have to return to the garrison soon. If you hurry, there should be no suspicion of my whereabouts.”

The angel starts moving around the room, grabbing a suitcase from the closet to begin filling it. Dean would actually be impressed with how well the guy remembers the location of all of his most important items (gun, knife, Dad’s leather jacket, a photo of him and Mom) if he wasn’t so surprised.

“You’re going to stop it, right?” he asks, putting on some underwear. It seems like a stupid question to ask, but it doesn’t stop him from asking it. _Of course_ Cas is going to stop it. “I know things are great between us, but I could help. Is it happening tonight?”

The angel stalls in his packing, hesitating to put a couple of shirts into the suitcase. “No,” he murmurs, not looking at the demon. “I’m not.”

Neither of them move for a few seconds, the full weight of that sinking in. Dean takes a step towards him, confused.

“You’re… you’re not _stopping_ it?”

“No.” He finishes putting the clothes in the luggage. “This is Heaven’s choice, so it is infallible, but I… I just wanted you to get out of town before it happened.”

Dean shakes his head, rubs his face, tries to see if he can wake up because this _cannot_ _possibly be_ real life.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“No, and we don’t have much time, so _please_ —“

But Dean’s shouting, “Fuck that, Cas! Do you fucking hear yourself?” Cas stops to stare at him. “You mean to tell me you’re going to burn this place and all these _people_ alive? Are you shitting me? Why the fuck would they do that?”

“We believe there is a group of demons here plotting against Heaven. We came to investigate the dissent, found that it was true. This was deemed the most appropriate choice of action.” Cas doesn’t sound like he believes a single word of what he’s saying, but he tries to look earnest.

“That’s the biggest load of shit I’ve heard in a long time. You don’t have to slaughter an entire city— _thousands of people_ —to get rid of just a few! You know who it is, so just take them!”

“We don’t know how deep it runs,” Cas attempts to explain. “The only way we can be sure is—“

“Stop trying to justify it, Cas. It’s pathetic,” the demon shakes his head, disgust plain on his face. “I can’t believe this. They must have really done a number on you. You think this is right? Can you really live knowing that you killed all those people. You know them, Cas! You’ve met them! If you do this, it’s nothing more than cold-blooded murder.”

“ _I know_!” snaps the angel. “I know, but… This is something I have to do. I learned my lesson.”

Dean snorts. “Yeah. Seems you did. But I’m not leaving.”

The angel’s eyebrows raise. “What?”

“I said I’m not leaving. There’s no reason I should get a pass and the other’s shouldn’t. And I’m going to let them all know, because you’re not going to kill all these people.”

“You don’t get a choice in this, Dean. _You’re leaving_.”

“Huh, that’s funny. Why’s that? I thought you didn’t give a rat’s ass about me,” Dean snaps. “Or is this so you can fuck with my head a little more? Gonna see if you can break me by killing just about everyone I’ve ever known?”

“Please, Dean.” Cas sounds exhausted. “I’m not going to let you stay here to die. So you can either help me pack your things, or I can take you by force. It’s up to you.”

The silence stretching between them gets tenser every moment. Finally, Dean lets his head bob slightly in agreement.

“Fine Just let me grab some other stuff.”

He leaves Cas to finish up, and when he gets to the bathroom, he closes the door behind him. Working fast, he grabs the silver knife that’s hidden beneath the sink and cuts open his arm. The list of angel sigils runs through his head from when he’d memorized it so long ago, and he figures out the one he needs easily.

Like hell is Dean letting these people die.

Slicking his fingers up with his blood, he smears it onto the mirror, replicating the symbol and hoping that it’s good enough to work. At least Crowley did one good thing for Dean. When he presses his palm to it, he can feel heat coming through the wall like a supernova. It dies down, and Dean slowly goes to his room to investigate and Cas is gone.

“What the hell happened to you?” he mutters.

He goes to the weapons closet, taking a deep breath. Fine then. If Cas won’t save this town, then Dean will.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angels were not built to choose their own destinies.

Castiel’s body aches. He’s on the ground, and the world around him is silent as he pushes himself up. He can just feel the air, the lightest sensation of cold prickling on his skin. As he looks around, he sees nothing but blinding snow-covered dunes stretching out for miles in all directions. His wings ache, prickling with the aftermath of the magic that refuses to let him return to Lawrence.

His heart aches, as well.

The angel straightens up, trying to see if there’s any sign of civilization. It’s useless. From the looks of things, he guesses he’s somewhere in the heart of Siberia. If that’s the case, then it’s completely possible that there’s no one around for thousands of miles.

_Wonderful._

He makes an attempt to stretch his wings, but they simply refuse, bogged down by leftover Enochian magic that will take a few minutes to wear off. Which, in turn, means he has a few minutes to think about what he’s going to do.

The answer should be simple, of course. Once he regains his ability to fly, he should go back to Dean’s and forcibly remove him, put him as far away from the danger as possible. Then he’ll return to his brothers, and they can raze the city.

But the idea of it all is now more painful than it was before.

Castiel thought he was passed this. That was what those first eight months were, was _getting passed_ this. Being reminded that demons are nothing but the scum of the earth, worse than humans, worth nothing more than the labor they can provide. If Heaven wasn’t so fond of their workforce and special “talents,” then they would be wiped from the face of the earth.

And he believed that, for awhile.

But seeing Dean again  threw everything into question. He thought he was good, stable, unwavering, but hearing the demon so hurt, so broken… To see that he obviously blamed himself… It was nothing short of painful.

Of course, Castiel was upset when he learned that Dean had been planning to sell him into slavery. It’s an honest reaction. But the angel is neither irrational nor stupid. After all, Dean gave him every opportunity for escape. If any of his brothers had been in his place, they would have left the demon’s long ago. Dean made it easy, even tried to push Cas away. And now the angel wonders if leaving during those first couple of weeks would have been the smartest thing he could have done.

Because what he created with Dean is dangerous. Trying to fool himself into believing that they could have some semblance of a true relationship, that maybe what was between them ran deeper than friendship or sex. It was nothing more than asinine and stupid. Dean is a demon, plain and simple. They aren’t supposed to coexist.

Besides, they wouldn’t be in this situation now if Cas had left. Yet here he is, standing in a Russian dessert, trying to figure out the best course of action to take now that all of his plans have backfired.

If Dean tries to fight the angels by himself, he will be killed. There is no doubt about that. The demon may be a talented hunter, but he is no match for the garrison, let alone the small army that has come to perform the extermination. Even if he does manage to rile up the enter town, their fate is as good as sealed.

Castiel, an Angel of the Lord, couldn’t stop it in the past. Why would a demon be able to stop it now?

Some feeling returns to his wings, and he stretches them.

He has three options in all of this. The first, fleeing from it all, is certainly out of the question. He’s a soldier, not a coward. But the other two are much harder to pick between.

On the one hand, he could stand by his brothers and assist in the razing. Whether or not he rats Dean out is irrelevant, as there will always be the same end. That’s why Cas is here, isn’t it? To prove his loyalty. To show that he has changed and that his sympathies no longer lie with the ‘lesser creatures’ his family so despises. What else was all that pain, torture, _reeducation_ for?

But then there’s Dean. For awhile, Castiel had thought that his feelings for the man had dissipated. That perhaps he really had just been tricking himself into believing in something that was never there to begin with. But having Dean confront him the other night was devastating, hurt right in the angel’s very core, especially when he was informed of how his former lover had spent their time apart. He thought the demon above that, no matter how ridiculous that might sound. Dean was— _is_ —a good person, down to his very soul, and yet…

The idea of leaving Dean for dead is unfathomable, but could Cas possibly help him? The hunter was right. To help his brothers would be to engage in murder, plain and simple. It would be a genocide, whose only true purpose is the extermination of the lesser. The demons could not possibly hold their own against the angels, and even if they might know a thing or two, it would be nothing less than a slaughter.

That leads him to his other option. If Cas were to help Dean fight back… If he could go to the residents, sabotage the traps, give them a crash-course in Enochian sigils, then perhaps they would stand a chance. Even if it was just Dean and Cas against the world, perhaps a handful of people could be saved.

Nevertheless, Dean cannot do it on his own.

He sighs, turning his head upward as if his father, long absent, might grant him some wisdom. But as always, it’s silent, and he’s left to make the choice himself.

Angels were not built to choose their own destinies.

There’s a crackle of energy as his wings push through the magical barriers that held them, spreading wide with feathers flaring. Castiel rolls his shoulders and takes a deep breath. Time to make his decision.

With a flap of his wings, he appears with his brothers once more. They are many, gathered in the woods adjacent to the city and preparing their strike. There should be a hundred, more than enough to take out the city, but half are gone, silently sabotaging Lawrence. He wonders if they’ve found Dean, doing who knows what to try to stop this.

“Castiel. You look… unwell.”

The angel turns towards the voice, sighing when he sees Uriel. Ever since Castiel came back, their relationship has been strained. They aren’t as close as they once were, and his brother seems constantly suspicious (as he probably should be, no doubt).

“No, I’m fine,” Cas lies. “I salted the area and placed the appropriate traps. Has the power been shut off yet?”

Uriel shakes his head. “It’s our last step, but we should be ready to go shortly. The perimeter of the city has also been salted and anyone found in the streets killed. It seems that no alarm has gone up yet.”

Nodding, the other angel puts his hands in his pockets. “How much longer?”

“Ten minutes, and then we’ll start.”

Ten minutes. Ten minutes before everything here goes up in smoke. He looks towards the city, grace receptive to all the energy and life that radiates from it, even a mile away. Soon, that will be nothing more than a barren wasteland thanks to him.

“Castiel, the garrison—and Zachariah—wish to make a request of you.”

He’s pulled out his macabre reverie and back to earth, where he turns to look at his brother.

“Of course. How may I be of service?”

“Well,” Uriel takes a step closer, clasping his hands behind his back, “we want _you_ to start the first fire.” Cas feels his chest seize up and his throat try to close. “After your _outburst_ last year, we believe it would be most appropriate. Consider it a new start.”

Castiel was prepared to go into the city and tear it apart. He was prepared to kill innocent civilians and pretend it was for the greater good. But to start the first fire? It is supposed to be such a distinguished honor, but how can he do _that_? It is the first fire that will catch the others, the one that would start the brutal process of burning down every building in the area, where thousands of people will be trapped and left to burn alive. The fire is what does the real damage in a razing, and he isn’t sure if it is possible for him to do it.

Still, he nods his head. “Thank you,” he says, voice a bit raspier than he would have liked, and Uriel narrows his eyes slightly.

“Don’t let us down again, Castiel.”

Uriel leaves to do other things, and Cas leans against a tree, ignoring the other angels that mill about. He mulls things over and over until there’s a sharp buzz in his mind, the signal for everyone to report for duty.

The angels leave to their designated posts, and he can feel them murmuring with excitement in his head. The energy is palpable, and he hopes no one notices that he does not feel the same. Uriel joins Castiel at a point along the southern border, and they stand, invisible to everyone but their kin, at the edge of the city. It’s a suburban area with a park not a block away. All the lights are out, and the salt lines are invisible beneath the night sky. It’s the darkest Cas has ever seen it.

“It’s time, Castiel.”

His brother’s voice sounds like a thunderclap in his ear, and even though he knows it’s just in his head, he wonders if it will rouse the families, the children, the infants that surely live in these houses. But no one stirs, and the night is as peaceful as ever. He hesitates, sickness growing in his stomach as he looks out at it all. So many innocent lives, so many people, all to die in the name of Heaven’s “Glorious Reign.”

“ _Castiel_.” Uriel’s tone is sharp, and Cas knows he has to make a decision now.

He breathes deep, closes his eyes, and then lifts his hand. With a snap of his fingers, eight houses go up in flames, and he can hear the roar of his family in his ears as they head in for the slaughter.

“Well done,” his brother says, turning to look at the houses. In the distance, they can see more and more buildings catch fire. “How do you feel?”

Castiel swallows down the lump in his throat, tries to ignore the pit in his stomach. “I feel fine. Let’s go.”

The two flit across the city to different areas, setting more and more fires. The screams have started up now, the stench of burning flesh filling their noses, and Cas has to push it all away, remind himself that he is doing this for the greater good, the good of his family, even though he knows that’s not true. This is for the good of Heaven’s most powerful, most wealthy. For the good of _President_ _Michael_ , and no one else.

But he has to lie to himself, because there is no other way he’ll get through this.

Sometimes, due to the way a building collapses, a few demons are let loose, and Castiel must chase them down, spear them through and look into their eyes as they die. He recognizes some of the people, just from knowing them in passing.

A few minutes pass as they continue on, and there are explosions farther off, as to be expected. Fueling stations and some homes going off as the fire reaches them. But then something’s off, because there are angels tuning in and screaming in their shared space of mind.

_theyrefightingbacktheyknowenochiantheyhaveanangelbladeswearedyingouthere_

The messages run together, fast and loud and allowing almost no time to process before he and Uriel come to the same realization simultaneously.

Uriel murmurs, “ _Shit_.”

Castiel can feel his brothers dying, feel their graces exploding like supernovas before blinking out of existence.

“We have to help them,” he says, and Uriel nods as they fly off towards the source of the message.

It’s closer to the center of the city, where the fires have yet to reach. Salt lines have been broken, but the only person here is the body of one of their sisters, her wings charred into the ground. Uriel walks up to her and kneels down to close her eyes, disgust plain on his face.

“How do they have our weapons? It should not have been possible for anyone to have snuck into our armories,” Cas says, voice wavering. He’s seen many dead people in the past, but never one of his own.

Uriel turns his gaze up and stares at Castiel for a long time before saying, “I don’t know. But I’m going to destroy the filth that did this.”

A few more angels pop up and look upon the fallen angel in despair.

“Our enemy possesses our weapons,” Cas explains. “We need to find and eliminate them immediately. Spread out and search.”

The angels listen to him without pause, but Uriel only gets to his feet.

“We’ll find whomever did this,” Cas says, trying to assuage his brother.

“Yes. We will.”

Cas heads off on his own way. Flying quickly through the streets, he searches them thoroughly and is left wondering how this could have happened. When was the last time he heard of an angel dying? Some died of old age, but they lived years far, far beyond anyone here. Those creatures were almost as old as the archangels themselves and did not belong in war zones. And that was how angels were meant to pass. They were meant to leave this world with a life well-lived, not cut-short.

Hearing some kind of struggle, he stops his search and listens for just a moment before flying towards it. He arrives just in time to see Dean Winchester push a sword, _Cas’ sword_ , through the heart of another angel.

The street explodes in blue light as Cas’ brother burns up and falls to the ground.

Shortly after, Dean and Castiel’s eyes meet, and then the angel is descending upon him in righteous fury. Their blades clash, and they grit their teeth as each tries to get in a blow, tips of swords searching for hearts. It’s fierce and angry. The two spit and growl like animals, but neither can get a hit in a good hit, and they end up backing away to circle.

“See you made it back,” Dean snarls. He lifts his free hand to wipe away the blood dripping from his nose. He flicks his wrist to show off his weapon and smirks. “You left this when you flew the coop.”

“I tried to _save_ you, Dean,” hisses the angel, his eyes feeling like they’re burning. “I was going to keep you from this!”

 “Well I never asked you to! If you really gave a shit about me, you would have helped me stop this!”

“You’re killing my family!”

“Yeah, and you’re killing mine!” They both come to stop and continue to hold their blades aloft and ready. Dean calms his voice to a low growl, and Cas is able to see the blood and dirt that’s smeared over the hunter. He wonders how much of it is from angels. “You made your choice, Cas. You’re the one who left! You’re the one who chose those holy douchebags and decided to kill all of these people!”

“I didn’t have a _choice_ , Dean.”

“Fuck you,” the demon shakes his head. “I thought you were better than this. You want to see humanity in demons? Well, here it is! This place is my home, and these people are the closest thing to family I have, and I’m not going to sit back and watch you burn them alive!”

They’re quiet, and the heat of the fires is getting closer.

“Cas, please…” Dean says, voice a little gentler. “Please don’t make me do this. We can fix this.”

The angel stares at him for moment. The argument rages in his head again, the guilt builds up in his chest. And just like that, he disappears.

Dean drops his sword to his side and shakes his head. He should have expected as much from sorry son of a—

“The North-Western exit along I-71 has been cleared of salt.”

The demon nearly jumps out of his skin, and he turns around quickly to see Castiel standing there with a splatter of blood across his chest.

“Cas,” he gapes. “You’re—?”

“Yes,” the angel interrupts. “But we must do this quickly.” He sounds shaken, voice not as steady as it was. “The reports have said that there are several demons fighting back with Enochian. Is that true?”

Dean swallows. “Uh, yeah. I taught them that banishing sigil so they’ve been blasting dudes out.”

“Good,” he replies, bowing his head. “Make sure that no one tries to make it out through Clinton Lake. Even if they were to make it, the water has been blessed. The same goes for the Kansas River. If anyone is going to survive, they will have to leave via the highway. You should direct as many of your fellows in that direction as possible. I will try to clear away as much salt and debris as possible.”

Nodding sharply, Dean straightens his back a little. “Thanks, Cas.”

The angel pulls his lips into a thin line. “Do not thank me for killing my family.”

With that, he gives his wings a hard flap and he’s in another part of the city. A look around tells him that the fires have nearly engulfed everything, and he hasn’t much time. He’ll have to work quickly if he wants to save anyone. The streets are filled with the muffled screams of demons and the sounds of them beating on the doors, trying to break windows. He realizes that he’s only a few blocks from the high school and wonders how many children have already died in this area.

He starts running by the burning houses, flicking his wrist to scatter salt lines and free as many people as he can. The whole street is free soon, but only a few people leave their homes. He realizes that the rest must already be dead.

“If you want to survive this, you need to exit through the Eastbound Kansas Turnpike,” he announces to them. They all look up, some angry, others scared. “Get in your cars, and drive. Do not look for your neighbors, your family, your friends. Leave. This is your only chance.”

He doesn’t allow anyone to argue with him, choosing to disappear instead and head on to the next neighborhood. He does this over and over, trying to free as many people as he can and ignore the panic that he hears from the other angels in his head.

He doesn’t run into any angels until his sixth neighborhood, and then there’s Uriel, standing in the middle of the street with his blade ready. The houses are burning with earnest now, crackling and falling down, and the street is lined with heat and blazing orange.

“You were making a pattern. It wasn’t hard to follow,” Uriel says, stepping closer. The other angel’s stomach turns, and he takes a step back. “I should have known you’d sabotage us. You’ve always had a sick soft spot for these stains.”

“They’re people,” Castiel tries to argue. “They have families and—“

“They’re _demons_!” The voice echoes loud across the expanse of road between them and several windows burst out from some of the homes. “They are nothing but the impurities of the earth incarnate.”

Castiel takes a deep breath and steps forward. “Well, that’s not what I have found.”

The angel sniffs. “No. You haven’t. I never would have picked you to be a traitor. To kill our own kind to save these cretins.”

It stings. Tonight was his first time ever seeing one of his brothers die, and yet now he has their blood staining his clothes. Remiel had looked up to him. Sometimes, he sympathized with Castiel, but he would never stray from “the path of God.” And so when he raised his blade against Cas, the older angel had no other choice.

How fitting of him to kill the Angel of Hope.

“Uriel, please,” Cas beseeches, “I don’t want to fight you.”

“Well you should have thought of that before you turned your back on us.”

And then the two are fighting. Wings bright and crackling with electricity as they go tooth and nail to try to destroy each other. Castiel is trying this time, not like he was with Dean. He’s trying _because_ of Dean, because of that damn demon and his smile and his fervor and his compassion and loyalty and humanity. He’s fighting against everyone and everything he’s ever trusted or believed in, and the fact of the matter is that the only thing he feels is sadness that his family can’t see things the way he does.

Castiel reels back when his brother’s blade slices open the flesh along his ribs, too close to his heart. Both of them are breathing heavy, and the air is thick with soot and ash. Cas puts a hand over his wound, as if he might be able to stop the blood and the blinding grace that pours from it.

Uriel slides in for another attack, but Castiel parries it. It happens so fast that he doesn’t have time to think about it, just moves in and runs the angel through. Everything seems to stop for a moment as they both look down to where the sword enters Uriel. Light builds up inside him, growing brighter and brighter through every part of him. And then it explodes outward, pure energy pulsing through the air, knocking out windows and fanning the flames.

Gently, Castiel lowers his brother to the ground. He can hear the angels screaming orders in his head, half of the forces having been banished and six killed. Cas gives Uriel one last look before he disappears.

It’s not hard to find Dean, not really. Only a few seconds of going through the city, and he has the demon located, standing near the turnpike and ushering people through.

“We have to go, Dean,” he says, hand over his wound. His wings are still out, tucked in neatly at his back, and someone screams as they run by him.

Of course, the demon shakes his head. “We can’t. There are still people out there. We have to—“

“They are _lost_ , Dean,” the angel snaps, because he’s bleeding and he’s just _done_ with all of this. “Anyone who still remains in that city is dead. You’ve already done your part.”

Dean’s eyes wander down to where Castiel is holding his wound. “Are you—?”

“It’s nothing,” he replies. “But we need to go. Now.”

“Cas, I can’t—“

“No, Dean. We’re done here.”

And Cas _is_ done. He’s completely done with all of this, ready to wash his hands of it, so he grabs Dean by the scruff of his neck, and then Lawrence is thousands of miles away.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to repair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late. Again, I've been busy, and to be honest, I sort of procrastinated this chapter because... well, it's the last chapter! I hope you all enjoy it. It's very short, just some things being fleshed out, but I hope you like it.

“Dammit, Cas! You need to take me back!”

Dean balls up his fists and tries to make himself look impressive. They’re in some shitty hotel room who-knows-where, and they’re both bleeding out of various wounds. Cas stumbles over to the bed to sit. He puts a hand over his ribs, and when he looks up at Dean, he’s obviously angry.

“ _No_ ,” he growls. “I told you. Lawrence is forsaken. All those who could have been saved have been. It’s nothing but ashes now.”

“Fine. I’ll just drive back, then.”

Dean is ready to head out the door, doesn’t give a fuck about anything else right now, but then—

“How so?”

The hunter gives him a strange look, then exits anyway. Whatever. So he doesn’t have a car. He can hotwire something, steal something. He just needs to get back to Kansas. That’s the only thing that’s important right now. He goes down the hall, past the front desk where they stare at the blood drying on his skin. When he gets outside, realizes it’s bright fucking daylight. Had it taken longer than he thought to get here? They’re in some huge city, with tall buildings and people milling about everywhere, and as he takes in his surroundings, he quickly comes to a realization.

“You sent us to fucking China?” he asks once he’s stormed back to the room.

Cas is breathing heavily and rubbing blood into familiar sigils on the walls.

“Japan, actually. Heaven has only a small consulate here. We’ll be able to rest for a short while.”

“Great…” Dean runs a hand through his hair and looks around as if some loophole will be written on the walls. When he looks back at the angel, though, he can’t help but feel a bit concerned. “You okay?”

“No, Dean,” he sighs, “but I’m ‘dealing’.”

Castiel finishes the last ward and then collapses back onto the bed to hold his wound. He presses his hand against his ribs, and when he pulls it away, it’s covered with blood. Sighing, Dean walks over and gets on his knees. The angel does nothing to stop him from examining, and then wrapping up, the injury.

“Just like old times,” Dean says, and though there’s a ghost of a smile on his face, he’s not amused.

The rest of it’s done in silence. They have no first-aid, so Dean uses what he can find in the bathroom to patch him up. He uses a long strip of the towel to wrap around the wound, and when he pulls away, Cas turns his eyes up.

“You still have the angel blade,” he says, gaze flickering to where Dean left the weapon on the ground. “Yet, you have not killed me.”

 “I’m not going to kill you.”

“You seemed hell-bent on it earlier.”

“Yeah, well, so did you.”

A beat of silence, and then Dean says, “You might want to lie down. You’re not looking too good.”

And he’s not. With the guy’s shirt gone, he can see how pale Cas is, a light sheen of sweat on his skin. His wings are gone, but Dean thinks he can sometimes see them start to fade into view when the angel’s breathing staggers. Castiel nods and gets onto his back, scooting up until he can rest his head on the pillow. The demon goes to the bathroom and starts to wash himself up, taking care of his own injuries. Some the angels had gotten him pretty good, and there are burns on his legs and a few deep gouges in his arms and chest.

“Now what?” Dean asks once he’s cleaned up. He’s been resolutely not thinking about Lawrence or all of the people that are now dead because of him, but it’s hard, and he knows he can’t avoid it.  

“I guess… we go our separate ways,” the angel says from the bed. He turns his head to look at Dean, his hands laced over his stomach. I’ll need about a day to heal from this. It’s not as bad as it was last time. I can fly you to wherever you’d like afterward, and then we can part.”

“No.”

Castiel sighs. “Dean—“

The hunter shakes his head and says, “You owe me.”

A few seconds, and then the angel says, “Do you want to torture me?”

“No. Cas, no, I don’t wanna—“

“I’m the reason that you’re friends are dead.” He pushes himself up into a sitting position and leans back against the headboard. “I betrayed you, and I helped burn down your last home, the last memories of your childhood and your family. I don’t believe that you don’t want to hurt me.”

His voice is worryingly calm, and it drives Dean up a wall, because how can Cas be _saying_ this shit? Maybe his fingers are itching, but he can’t bring himself to think about that stuff, not after leaving Alastair’s not so long ago.

“Just shut up, okay!” he snaps. “You’re not leaving. Not again.”

Cas furrows his brows and stares at him. “You want me to stay?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I just do, okay?”

Castiel licks his lips and shifts where he’s seated. “What if I don’t want to stay?”

Dean’s head snaps up, and for a brief moment, he looks terrified. “I don’t fucking care,” he replies, shaking his head. “I’ll keep you in a circle of holy fire if that’s what it takes. But you can’t leave me. Not again. Not after all _this_.”

He hates that pitying look on the angel’s face, and he wants to smack it off. “The angels are going to look for me. They might overlook what you have done, but they will not forget or forgive me. I have transgressed against them twice now, in ways that no angel has done in a very, very long time. Heaven will not stop until I am dead.”

“What’s your point?”

Castiel looks off to the side and purses his lips as he composes himself. “So your _life_ is in danger, Dean,” he says, doing a poor job of keeping his cool.

“Then let’s be in danger together, then! You can’t survive out there by your own.”

The angel’s shoulders go tense, and Dean knows he’s made him angry. “I can’t—“

“No, Cas. I’m not letting you leave,” the demon growls, and their eyes are locked, with Dean standing over the bed. “And if you try, I will hunt you down. You better believe I will. You might be able to hide from Heaven, but you can’t hide from me. I’m the best damn hunter in the country, and you know that. I’ll be able to find you.”

Unperturbed by the threat, the angel beseeches, “Dean, I _can’t stay_.”

“Goddamn it, Cas, stop saying that!” Dean turns around and takes a few steps away to run a hand through his hair.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t let them threaten you again.”

That freezes him in his tracks. Slowly, Dean returns his gaze to the angel, and he can see the guilt growing on Cas’ face.

“Again?” he asks quietly, eyebrows raised.

He won’t look at Dean in the eyes as he answers. “Yes… I didn’t _want_ to leave you, Dean. But Heaven, Zachariah… They found me. They threatened to kill you if I did not comply with their demands. I had no choice.”

Dean chuckles and shakes his head. He doesn’t know what else to do. What else _can_ he do? All this time spent thinking, wondering, obsessing over this, and he finds out that Cas actually _hadn’t_ wanted to leave? How fucking hilarious.

He sniffs and turns around to face the angel, feeling almost as betrayed as he had when they’d last seen each other over a year ago.

“And you,” he shakes his head, torn between laughing and screaming. “You couldn’t have told me that?”

“I knew you wouldn’t allow me to leave, not without coming after me. I wanted you to have no reason to look for me and put yourself in danger.”

Dean’s face twists into one of anger, and he shakes his head. “Cas, you fucking child… We could have handled this together. We could’ve fought back if you’d just told me!”

Cas sits up a little taller to glare at the demon. “Yes, and we’d both be dead by now.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I wasn’t willing to take the chance.”

Shaking his head, Dean rubs his face with both hands before letting them fall to his sides. “Fuck you, Cas. Just fuck you.”

“I’m sorry, Dean. I didn’t know that you would fall so far as to…”

“To what? To-to go crawling back to Alastair, begging him to let me stick around? Looking for the next piece of meat I could cut up? I tried so hard to get you out of my head, and I couldn’t even…”

Castiel swings his legs off the bed and stands up carefully. “You were not the only one who faced adversity, Dean.”

“Yeah, I get that, but we could’ve…” Dean shakes his head, and they’re standing close. “If you had just trusted me, we could have avoided all of that. All of _this_. I just… How am I supposed to trust you after this?”

He can see the hurt in the angel’s eyes, and he knows he should be upset, but it still stings.

“Would you really hunt me down if I were to leave?” Castiel asks quietly.

“You bet your lily-white ass I would.”

Because even if he’s angry, even if it hurts, he can’t imagine living without Cas again. He can’t imagine how he’d make it. He has nothing, no one, and part of him blames the angel. And he knows it’s bad, he knows it’s manipulative and fucked up for him to say these things to Castiel, but he’s fucking earned the right, hasn’t he? He has no home, no family. His house, his car, everything he owned, all his memories have been turned to dust.

“Cas, please…” he whispers, voice breaking. “Please, don’t leave.”

Carefully, the angel cups his cheek, and Dean can’t tell if the guy’s pitying or angry or upset or relieved. He can’t even tell what he’s feeling himself, but he doesn’t think he cares right now. They both lean in, and the kiss is gentle, pleading, scared. Dean puts a hand on the angel’s bare sides and is cautious when he pulls him closer, not wanting to brush against the healing wound.

“I believe staying would be the safest option for you,” Castiel whispers when they part.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

And it’s probably all kinds of fucked up, but Dean’s so damn relieved. He’s been alone for so long, hurt and angry, but now he’s got Cas again. The angel might try to leave, try to get out of this someday, and Dean can’t blame him. But at least _for this moment_ they have each other. If Cas really left, Dean doesn’t know if he could chase after him, but he can trick himself into believing in this working for the moment. He’s not alone. He has this stupid angel with him. This angel who’s too good for him, who deserves something much better than Dean. Because for all of Castiel’s faults and everything he’s done, he’s still a better person than the demon will ever be, could ever be. Their relationship is messy and fucked up, and they have a lot to work on. There’s a lot of trust that needs to be built up again. But whether it’s for a day or a month or a year or until the day he dies, Dean’s at least glad for this one single moment of hope, because the sad thing is, he doesn’t know if it will ever get better than this. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has stuck around with this fic and dealt with me. I know it's been a bit frustrating, but I hope you got something out of the end. I know it's not the happiest note, but I left it open for a reason. Do Dean and Cas repair their relationship? Do they manage to stay away from the angels? Do they build a place for themselves and find some semblance of happiness? Do they get caught and killed? That's up to you to decide and interpret for yourself. I had a lot of directions that I was originally going to take this, but I think this was the best course (it almost turned into a death!fic, you know!). I've always liked open endings, though, and I hope you're at least content with this ending, as well.
> 
> Special thanks to my best friend [Jen](http://inarticulacies.tumblr.com>Laura</a>%20and%20my%20friend%20<a%20href=) for helping me out with this. They were great for bouncing off ideas and such, and I can't express how helpful they've been. Thanks to everyone who read, commented, kudos'd, subscribed, bookmarked, etc. I love you all so much, and I'm incredibly grateful for all of you! And I know that I don't reply to every comment anymore, but I hope you all know that I read and cherish every single one! Thanks again, guys!


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